


The Sage: A Wizarding Murder Mystery

by AltheaG



Series: The Nigel Chaucer Chronicles [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Betrayal, F/M, Gossip, Healers, Murder, Mystery, Pregnancy, St. Mungo's, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 93,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltheaG/pseuds/AltheaG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Embarking on a new career as a Healer, and newly married to Ginny Weasley, Nigel has the whole world before him. Now he can settle down, forget about chasing dark wizards and finally focus on getting his life and his family started. So when his supervisor at St. Mungo's winds up dead in his office, Nigel's entire world is turned upside down. Will he be able to get himself out of trouble or will he rot away in Azkaban?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Muggle Artifacts

**Author's Note:**

> This is part four of the Nigel Chaucer Chronicles. Enjoy!

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ll do just fine. It’s easy.”

“It looks complicated.”

“Trust me, Ginny. I know what I’m doing. Just pick it up.”

She had never seen such a thing, at least not up close. It looked different from what she expected—it was smaller that what she had imagined, but sleek and comfortable in her hand. She smiled at Nigel.

“So? You like it?”

“I do. How does it work?”

“Here, give it to me. I’ll show you.”

Nigel took the little mobile phone from her hand and flipped it open. Ginny goggled at the little buttons, all lit up in a bright blue. She laughed.

“It even has a picture on it!” she exclaimed.

“They don’t move or anything, but on the other hand, you can record video on it.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Video?”

“Like our pictures—ones that move. But video has sound, too.”

“That is amazing!”

Nigel laughed. “You sound like your father.”

“Father will go stark mad over this stuff, Nigel! Say, why not give him one of these mobile phones, too?”

“Would that be OK with your mum? I know she’s not so hot on all this muggle stuff.”

“When she sees she can use it herself, she might not be so against it. She can ring me when I’m off in Tunisia or Java—that’s right, isn’t it?”

Nigel nodded. “Wherever you go, you can always ring me. I got an international plan for us so we won’t pay through the nose in roaming charges.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Nigel laughed. “Never mind. Push the buttons.”

When she did, the little beep made Ginny shriek, making her fumble the phone and nearly drop it. Nigel laughed.

“I wasn’t expecting it to make a noise!” she said, now laughing with him. She handed the phone back to Nigel. “You’d better hang onto it, hon. I’m afraid I’ll smash it.”

“You won’t. I have faith in you.”

The newlyweds sat on upside down crates, eating pizza and drinking Cokes—a recent discovery of Ginny’s. The concept of fizzy drinks was completely alien to Ginny, who had grown up entirely in the wizarding world, so when Nigel brought home a six-pack of Cokes, his wife wasn’t quite sure what he was getting her into.

“What is this stuff?” she had asked.

“You had some when we went on our token date. Remember?”

“No! That was ages ago!”

Nigel chuckled. “I thought you girls always remembered every single detail of their first date with their beloved.”

Ginny rolled her eyes at him.

Since that first uncomfortable, awkward, terribly romantic night in their own London apartment, Ginny had taken quickly to Coke, then Cherry Coke, 7Up, and root beer—that one, she told him, reminded her the most of butterbeer.

“I was never so keen on butterbeer,” Nigel confessed, though butterbeer held a special memory for him, as the very first drink he had consumed as a wizard. He remembered its sticky sweetness as if it were yesterday, and he remembered how confused he was over all the new things he’d had to learn as a wizard. He knew how Ginny felt now.

But fizzy drinks and mobile phones were only a small part of the new additions to the Weasley-Chaucers’ lives. Nigel quickly discovered that Ginny had no concept of living with electricity, and he had to remind her continually both to turn on and especially to turn off the lights.

“We don’t want to waste electricity,” he said.

“But surely there’s plenty of electricity,” she protested.

“There is. For a price. Electricity can get expensive.”

Along with electricity came items powered by electricity—clocks, refrigerator, television, radio, microwave. The microwave alone was a major adjustment for Ginny, who had only heard about them but never actually got to use one. Her father had one at the Burrow, but with no electricity there, it was unusable.

“They’re not hard to use,” Nigel said. “Heck, if I can use one, anyone can, believe me.”

It took a few tries and a bit of burned food until Ginny started to get the hang of it. Power level? Time? Defrost? Reheat? It was all like ancient Greek as far as Ginny was concerned. And more buttons that made noise. She was intrigued and intimidated.

“I think I’ll just use magic,” she said dejectedly after a few fruitless attempts. Nigel kissed her cheek.

“Well, if you ever feel like a bit of adventure, all this stuff is right here. I guess I shouldn’t show you how to use a coffee maker?”

Ginny cringed. “I think I’ve had enough muggle artifacts for a day. Honestly, Nigel, how did you ever manage? I would have starved.”

He shrugged. “That’s just what I’m used to. The only time I ever was without this stuff was my last year at Hogwarts. Otherwise, this stuff is just second nature to me.”

Ginny smiled. “OK, I have a solution. You just do all the cooking!”

“I fear that reality,” Nigel said in mock terror. “I tried cooking once when I lived with Draco, and think I nearly killed him.” He took a bite of pizza and wiped his chin with a napkin. “This stuff’s messy.”

“It’s nice here,” Ginny said, cracking open another can of Coke. “I think we can really start to feel settled down now we’re on our own, though I admit I will miss those midnight Gobstones parties Malfoy used to have.”

Nigel winked. “That’s because you used to beat him at every game! Say, you and I need to do something really important this weekend, after you get back from—where are you going?”

“Spain. It’s Toledo playing Madrid this time. Huge match! The winner of that one will play Granada for the national title.”

“And then vie for the Quidditch World Cup?”

Ginny nodded. “Precisely. The good money’s on Toledo, but Fred and George are betting a bundle on Madrid. Fred is still mad at me because I couldn’t get him tickets.”

Nigel laughed. “You mean you couldn’t use your reporter’s credentials?”

“Are you mad? It was hard even for the magazine to get in, and I’m reporting on the game! Crazy situation. It seems like everyone is desperate to go.”

“So you couldn’t even get your own husband in?”

“I couldn’t get the ghost of Albus Dumbledore in, and you’re just about as famous.”

Nigel leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. They laughed.

“You taste like garlic!” Ginny said. She ran her fingers through his dark hair.

Nigel kissed her again. “We both do.”

“So what’s this important thing we have to do?” she asked. They had moved their crates together and wrapped their arms around each other, showering each other with kisses and caresses.

“Computer shopping.” Nigel kissed her throat softly, then her shoulders…

“Is that important?” she asked, nibbling his earlobe.

“Mmm,” he replied dreamily. “We can stay in touch that way.” He fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, but then, Ginny reached up and helped him. They laughed as they tugged off Ginny’s blouse first, then his shirt.

“I thought that’s what the mobile was for,” she replied, running her fingers down the muscles of his bare back. 

Nigel leaned into her and kissed her mouth again, harder now, more hungrily. They stopped talking about computers and shopping and everything else, now laughing and clutching at each other as they eased back onto the carpeted floor, their pizza forgotten, hoping the muggle neighbours wouldn’t hear them.

“Muffliato,” Nigel whispered. Ginny giggled.

* * * * *

The Weasley-Chaucers had an odd schedule. Most mornings, Ginny slept in till nine or even ten, since she didn’t have to go to an office every day. Since they moved into their London apartment, she would normally write her article in her favourite corner coffee shop where she could have a delicious scone and a mug of fresh Brazilian coffee. Once done, Ginny would apparate to the Quidditch World Weekly offices, article in hand, to give to her editor.

Nigel, on the other hand, spent his days and sometimes his nights at St. Mungo’s training to be a Healer. The classes were tough and arduous. As much as Nigel had learned about magic over the years, he felt entirely unprepared for the rigours of Healer training. He completed his first year of study with good marks, but leaving him feeling woefully underprepared for his desired career. As a Hogwarts student and as a Ministry official, Nigel had proven himself to be a bit of a Potions prodigy. His Shield Potion had saved many lives, including his, his parents’ and Draco’s, and the Demagus Potion he invented had stripped many dark wizards of their magic. But this was entirely different.

Over the past year, Nigel had to learn biochemistry, anatomy and much more. If he had gone to muggle medical school, he would have learned about drugs, surgery, and things like that. But becoming a Healer involved more than that. He had to learn about the effects of magic on the body, and from many sources—spells and hexes, creatures, insects, potions and plants. He had to learn not only about physical effects, but mental and psychological effects, too. For example, he had to learn about the potentially permanent effects of memory charms on the mind, and about the psychiatric long-term effects of the Cruciatus curse.

Most nights over the past year, Nigel sat at his desk by the window overlooking the grounds of Malfoy Manor, studying late into the early morning hours whilst his young wife slept alone in their bed. He felt terrible about that. Nigel wanted nothing more than to sink into her arms and fuse his body to hers, as they had done so frequently on their honeymoon in Fiji. But there was just so much to learn, so much he didn’t know, and if he were going to be a success as a Healer, then he had to buckle down and study, regardless of his desires. He hoped Ginny understood.

Now that they were on their own and out of Draco’s house, things were a lot different. There were no House Elves to take care of things like laundry and cooking, and neither Nigel nor Ginny were particularly talented at either. They would just have to learn.

This year would bring a change for Nigel, and not just where he and Ginny lived. The main reason for moving to London was because Nigel had to start his three year internship at St. Mungo’s. During this time, Nigel would work in each department at the hospital, learning from the Professor Healers and other experts. After two years, Nigel was expected to choose a specialty, then spend another year perfecting his techniques and his bedside manner.

Unlike Hogwarts, the school year for St. Mungo’s began August 1 and ended June 30, giving the students a precious month holiday. The hardest part of this arrangement for Nigel was that his birthday was on July 31, the day before he had to return to school. He and Ginny had spent much of this time off moving from Malfoy Manor to their place in London’s Notting Hill, decorating it, getting rid of the crates and getting themselves proper furniture. Draco gave them a dining table, a settee, a few end tables and some bookcases, and Hermione bought the couple two floor lamps as a housewarming gift.

But they wanted to buy their own bed—the bed was key. They ended up with a king-sized, four poster, lush and decadently comfortable—the sheets and thick duvet from Fleur and Bill kept them warm and close and reluctant to get up in the mornings. Nigel’s parents gave them most of their muggle artifacts—microwave, toaster, coffee maker, television, DVD player. Fred and George gave them a pygmy puff and a new security globe, much like the one they gave to Nigel’s parents a couple of years ago.

The strangest housewarming gift came from Severus Snape, Nigel’s distant cousin. It was a very small, solid silver cauldron, the size of a thimble.

“What does it do?” Nigel asked him.

Severus held up something that looked like a sesame seed. “You put this inside it.”

“For what?” Nigel asked. “Good luck? Bountiful harvest?”

“Don’t be clever, Chaucer,” Severus replied snidely. “Actually, it makes your apartment unplottable.”

“Do you really think we need to worry about that?” Nigel asked, a little troubled. He remembered all the havoc of the last couple of years and hoped all that was all over.

“Better safe than sorry,” Severus replied.

“Well thanks, then. Is this your own invention?”

“Mostly. Actually, I stole the idea from you.”

“Me? I never made a potion like that.”

“No, but I remember that you were able to stop time in a specific location. Snappy bit of magic, Chaucer. Inspired.”

Nigel blushed, now remembering the dangerous circumstances that brought about that necessity.

“Thankfully all those people are rotting in Azkaban,” he said.

Nigel missed his cousin terribly—he always did when they were apart. He hadn’t seen much of Severus since he and Ginny moved. Severus was off on holiday somewhere, and Nigel was busy getting his new life started. And now, with classes and work starting up again, his chances of having any sort of social life were pretty slim. Nigel tried to convince himself that this was all for a good cause—his dream career—but the prospect of so much work daunted him just a little.

This surprised him somewhat, considering how much he wanted to be in the medical profession, ever since he was a child. And then so many things changed in Nigel’s life. He became a wizard, then a Hogwarts student, then a Ministry official, and now, a Healer in training. It wasn’t that Nigel minded change, in fact, he thrived on it. But he also hungered for some stability and sameness for once. Ever since he mysteriously became a wizard at age sixteen, after a devastating accident, Nigel’s life was anything but stable. He had endured new lessons, misunderstanding, secrecy, anxiety, fear and the tragic loss of a beloved girlfriend. But Nigel also gained many things—new friends, a new relative, honour, fame, prestige—and most importantly, Ginny.

* * * * *

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries had experienced a drastic change in staff. Chief of Staff Hippocrates Smethwyck retired at the end of June, making way for his successor, Healer Orric Fowler. Fowler was an entirely different entity from Smethwyck, who was all gentleness and compassion blended with a brilliant mind and a vast array of knowledge of the Healing arts. Fowler was much younger than Smethwyck, about forty-five, and his background was mostly in hospital administration. As a student, both at Hogwarts and at St. Mungo’s, Fowler earned top marks, perfect Os on all his NEWTs, perfect grades in all his Healer classes, the best commendations from all his professors.

After ten years as a Healer specialising in broken bones, abrasions and cracked skulls, Fowler became Chief of Osteomagic, then Head of the Artifact Accidents Department. The majority of his patients were in the outpatient category, which left him available to take up small administrative duties. After a few years of this, Fowler was promoted to a full-time administrator, focusing on hospital business, fundraising and insurance plans. And now, he had become the head of the Healer Training Program.

Fowler, along with the rest of the wizarding world, knew all about Nigel Weasley-Chaucer. He had heard all the stories, the legends, the mysteries involving this extraordinary young man. He was certainly curious, but not entirely impressed. After all, just because Nigel Weasley-Chaucer had invented a potion that stripped a wizard of his magic, didn’t mean he would be successful as a Healer. Dumb luck, as far as he was concerned. Fowler believed the man would have to be tested, in the harshest way possible. That was Fowler’s goal, to make sure that no one, even the great Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, would complete Healer training unless they were completely qualified and fully prepared for the difficult tasks ahead. St. Mungo’s was no place for favouritism or star treatment.

He’d show him it wasn’t so easy to just step into a venerable career as a Healer, just like that. This wasn’t the Ministry, where the Minister of Magic had spent a year bowing and scraping to Weasley-Chaucer’s every whim merely because of a few fancy tricks. Everyone at the Ministry called him the Great Unifier, but Fowler wasn’t impressed by that. Unifying opposing sides had nothing to do with the precise and careful practice of the Healing arts. Weasley-Chaucer would just have to buckle down, like everyone else. He wasn’t going to have his career handed to him, no matter what.

Yes, of course he knew it was an honour to be able to work with and give guidance to a wizard the likes of Nigel. Someone with his raw talent and leadership ability was a rare thing indeed. Fowler knew that well enough. In fact, he could see Nigel as Chief of Staff one day, a very long time from now, of course. He could see many things for Nigel. On the other hand, there were many things the young man simply didn’t know. How could he? He had only been a wizard for five years—surely he couldn’t know everything. No one did. Even the great Albus Dumbledore didn’t know everything. Fowler relished the opportunity to display his own acumen to all the student Healers. This was his great moment.

Fowler was ready for all of the second year Healer students the moment they entered the ward and made their way to the seminar room. He awaited them, his silver hair neatly combed, just a hint of aftershave, navy blue robes laundered and perfectly pressed. Fowler had a stack of handouts for each of the students, detailing the departments and wards of St. Mungo’s, and describing the various areas of the Healing arts they would experience these next two years under his direction.

They all arrived on time, seating themselves around the seminar table—all twelve of them, Weasley-Chaucer included. They all looked so young to Fowler, so ripe for knowledge. Amongst them, five were witches and the other seven were wizards, all around the same age, of varying shades and sizes. Fowler mused at the varying extremes of the students—one wizard looked to be at least twenty-seven stone, whereas the witch who sat next to him looked positively whisper thin. Another wizard was tall and tanned and quite muscular, as if he had trained in some muggle gym. And then there was Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, who seemed surprisingly short by Fowler’s estimation. He imagined that he would be six foot six, towering over everyone like a young god, but instead, he discovered that Nigel was disappointingly normal looking—dark hair, nice eyes, rather handsome face, though not overly so. Nigel now sat at the end of the table, his quill and parchment at the ready, eagerly awaiting Fowler’s instructions.

“Now then, right,” Fowler began. “You are all starting your two-year internship which will take you through each and every department of St. Mungo’s, and will expose you to every area of the Healing arts. You all know that at the end of your two-year tenure in this capacity, it will be time for you to choose your area of specialty. Are there any questions so far?”

Nigel raised his hand. A couple of people whispered to each other, and a witch giggled.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer?”

Nigel cleared his throat. “I was just wondering if all of us will make the same rotation or if we’ll be split up into smaller groups.”

Fowler frowned briefly. “Is this an important detail? Are you desperate to know?”

 _Not another Severus_ , Nigel thought to himself bitterly.

“Well, sir, I was just wondering whether we would learn in larger groups or in smaller ones. I was just curious.”

“In fact, young man, you will be split into three groups of four. These groups will not change for the two years of your internship. There are, as you all know, five floors, or wards, specialising in a different area. Over the next two years, you will work on each floor at a total of four different intervals. After the last interval, you will take a two month review course so you can take your board exams.”

All the students, Nigel included, gulped a bit, thinking about the massive amount of work that lay ahead of them. Nigel raised his hand again.

“Yes?” Fowler replied, now looking a bit perturbed.

Nigel got the distinct impression that the man was on a tight schedule. Only he had one pressing question.

“I was just wondering, sir, where the research is done,” he said.

“Research?”

“You know, potions and remedies that you use here. Who does the research?”

“That is a specialty reserved for very experienced Healers, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. It is not for novices.”

“No, of course not, sir.”

“It takes more than a bit of dumb luck to be an effective researcher,” Fowler continued. “One must have extensive knowledge of how the body functions and the various ways that magic can effect the body, both positively and negatively.”

Nigel chose to ignore the _dumb luck_ comment. On the other hand, he wanted to weigh his options at the outset, just in case he found he wanted to improve as a potions master. “Forgive me, sir, but isn’t that what our training and study is for?” he asked.

The large wizard snorted into his parchment and smirked.

“Naturally, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, but an effective researcher also has years of experience as well.”

Nigel nodded. True enough. He had a few more questions to ask, but decided to hold off on asking them—he was getting the impression that Fowler didn’t like questions, especially from new interns. Instead, he took care to listen to the rest of Fowler’s long lecture on decorum, on schedules, on exams, group projects, and so forth, so that by the time lunchtime rolled around, Nigel and all his classmates were so worn out that none of them had much of an appetite. Still, they all knew they had to eat, so up they went to the fifth floor cafeteria.

 _This is it_ Nigel thought. _I’m finally doing it._ He hoped the reality would live up to the dream.


	2. The Fearsome Foursome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nigel wanted to dismiss Will’s suggestion about Fowler, but as they marched back to the seminar room for another long lecture, he couldn’t put the idea out of his mind. He wanted to be optimistic, like Daisy, and believe that Fowler really was just being hard on everyone equally. One thing Nigel hated more than anything was politics—that was what motivated him to unify the Hogwarts houses in the first place. All the backbiting and antiquated feuding seemed so petty and counterproductive to Nigel. As far as he was concerned, politics split people apart by pitting individuals against each other, and based on stereotypes and prejudices and mindless conformity. The very last thing Nigel wanted was to encounter that again._

**Today’s Special: Tuna mayonnaise on a croissant, garden salad and iced tea, all for 10 Sickles.**

Nigel got the special.

The whole gang of them laughed raucously at Fowler’s expense as they ate their lunch and looked out at the view of London. The muggles were at lunch, too, by the look of traffic out there on the street. Nigel wondered where Ginny was—today she was supposed to travel to Bulgaria to interview Viktor Krum—Nigel had only heard about Viktor from Hermione and Harry, but had never met the man. After the interview, Ginny was supposed to return to London and write up her article, then submit it to her editor the following day. He was sure she wasn’t back yet. Too early. He wondered if she would get to watch the Bulgarian team work out and practice. Nigel wanted every detail from her when he got home.

“So what was up with you and Fowler, Nigel?” asked Henry, the large wizard. His shock of red hair reminded Nigel of Percy Weasley. “I wished I was a Legilimens so I could read his pea brain little mind!”

Nigel laughed.

“I liked him,” said Daisy, the very thin witch. She tossed a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder and ate more of her fruit salad. “I liked his hair.”

Now everyone laughed.

“He acts like he’s got a broomstick up his bum!” Henry crowed.

“Maybe so,” said Will, the tanned wizard. “But he seems to really have it in for you, Chaucer.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like Slytherins,” Daisy suggested.

“Wait, didn’t Nigel save us all from that sort of stuff?” Henry joked. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and took a long swig of pumpkin juice.

Nigel chuckled. “Hang on, Henry,” he said. “I seem to remember having to do suspend you from the rafters when I was Head Boy. Weren’t you harassing a Hufflepuff or something?”

“Capital sin!” Will laughed. “I just think Fowler’s jealous of you.”

“He has to be hard on all of us,” Daisy said, straightening her spine. “After all, we’re training for a very important and crucial position in the wizarding world. We can’t afford to be slipshod.”

“No one is going to be slipshod, Daze,” Henry said. “At least I’m not, and I’m pretty sure Chaucer here won’t be. Chaucer doesn’t have a slipshod bone in his body from what I remember!”

Nigel laughed. “That’s my problem. I get too bloody involved!”

“Thank the gods,” Henry said. “We Ravenclaws really liked all that stuff you did at Hogwarts, and I have to say that that Demagus thing you created was real genius!”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Not just dumb luck?”

Nigel rolled his eyes and finished his sandwich. He wanted to dismiss Will’s suggestion about Fowler, but as they marched back to the seminar room for another long lecture, Nigel couldn’t put the idea out of his mind. He wanted to be optimistic, like Daisy, and believe that Fowler really was just being hard on everyone equally. 

One thing Nigel hated more than anything was politics—that was what motivated him to unify the Hogwarts houses in the first place. All the backbiting and antiquated feuding seemed so petty and counterproductive to Nigel. As far as he was concerned, politics split people apart by pitting individuals against each other, and based on stereotypes and prejudices and mindless conformity. The very last thing Nigel wanted was to encounter that again. Healing was about the body, about using ones knowledge and expertise and skill to restore people to health—it wasn’t about who was bigger or better than anyone else.

Nigel rebuked himself just slightly—he was such an idealist! Hadn’t he learned from experience of confronting some very dark wizards that in reality, people were base, shallow, selfish and brutal? But no, Nigel didn’t want to turn into a cynic…into Severus. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny it, no matter what. As much as he admired Daisy’s desire to stand up for Fowler, he couldn’t get out his mind the uncomfortable feeling that Henry and Will spoke the greater truth.

All Nigel could do was to give the man a fair chance. Everyone deserved that.

* * * * *

That night, Nigel sat at his writing desk by the window, reading the handouts Fowler assigned them, and taking all sorts of intricate notes, both on the handouts themselves and on scrolls of parchment. Everyone had to write a 60 inch report that summarised the focus of each department at St. Mungo’s and how these departments fit into the overall mission of the hospital. This was easier said than done. While Nigel had already been a student at St. Mungo’s for a year, all of what he learned was general knowledge about the body and about the major magical forces that govern it. But breaking all that into five discrete areas, areas he hadn’t yet studied, was a real challenge to Nigel.

Ginny brought him a plate of ham sandwiches and a beer, which a very grateful, very hungry Nigel devoured.

“Almost done?” she asked.

Nigel rubbed his forehead and shook his head. “I wish. I should be about two more hours, I hope.”

“It’s late,” Ginny said, looking at the electric clock on the wall. “Nearly one in the morning.” She massaged his shoulders.

“That feels so good.” Nigel leaned his head back and groaned. “You traveling tomorrow?”

“No. I’ve got to finish my Krum piece and get it to the office before seven. They want it in next week’s edition.”

Nigel stretched his arms over his head and grunted a little. “You get some good pictures?”

“Colin did beautifully, actually. He’s really a wonderful photographer,” Ginny said, laying out four pictures of the famous Quidditch player. Viktor reluctantly waved at the camera, but didn’t exactly smile.

“He looks irritated,” Nigel commented.

“He always looks like that. He’s not nearly as dishy as you are,” she purred, placing herself in Nigel’s lap. Ginny kissed his neck and his jaw, but before Nigel got a chance to run his hands down the silhouette of her slender frame, she got up and collected the pictures.

“Aw come on!” cried a dejected Nigel. “No fair! You can’t get me worked up like that and then just go away!”

Ginny smirked. “Well, now you’ve got a good reason to work a little faster. I’ll see you in bed.” She kissed him and made her way to the bedroom.

“Did I say two hours?” Nigel mused. “I meant twenty minutes!”

“You men really are all alike,” Ginny laughed. “Even the remotest chance of sex, and suddenly you’re superman! Come on, baby, don’t rush, really. I want you to do a good job on your report and make that Fowler fellow proud of you.”

Reluctantly, Nigel agreed. He sighed and returned to his homework, while Ginny disappeared into the bedroom. He could hear the sound of the television in the distance and wondered what she was watching.

* * * * *

“This is sixty-two inches,” Fowler said disdainfully.

Nigel shrugged. “I got a little overeager. I was sort of inspired.”

“I do not read past inch sixty, as it happens. Remember that in future.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that he was unused to exacting professors—a full year with Severus taught Nigel how to tolerate boorishness and impatience. Nigel hoped that Fowler had the same unspoken, secret compassion lurking under the stony exterior. He had a feeling that this could go very badly for him—Will’s words came back to haunt him just then. Nigel reacted the only way he possibly could without being chucked out of the program altogether. He nodded and obeyed. It became clear to him very quickly that he wasn’t so sure what sort of power Fowler wielded, in terms of influence within the intern program. Thus, Nigel concluded that it was best not to tempt fate, at least not until he had a better idea of who he was dealing with.

It did occur to Nigel to use Legilimency on Fowler. He suspected that the man was mostly talk and show. That’s usually how it was with men like this. Fowler was a big fish in a small pond, someone who got a little power and used it to control those around him. While Nigel felt fairly certain that Fowler was no Voldemort of Geoffrey Taylor, that didn’t mean that Fowler was harmless. He had to bear that in mind as he returned to his seat at the seminar table, having just been put in his place by Fowler, who now frowned at Nigel’s two-inch-too-long essay. Will poked Nigel in the ribs. Nigel rolled his eyes, wondering what was next.

They took a brief stretch break after everyone had handed in their essay for review. Fowler disappeared into his nearby office, leaving the interns to chat amongst themselves.

“I told you he had it in for you,” Will said. “My essay was sixty-four inches, and I didn’t get any comment from Fowler.”

“He’s hot for you,” Henry joked.

“Sorry. Spoken for,” Will said proudly. “Lisa Turpin.”

“She was in my class,” Nigel remembered. “Ravenclaw, right?”

“Yep. We Ravenclaws stick together.” Will and Henry high-fived each other.

But quickly then, efficiently, Fowler scurried back in with a rather ostentatious scroll of parchment in hand. Everyone quieted down and sat back in their seats around the seminar table.

“Now then now then now then,” Fowler began, “I have here your group assignments. These are for the next two years, and they are not changeable. If someone chooses to leave the program before the two years are up, then the group is simply minus one person.” Fowler paused and chuckled lightly. “Not that I’m expecting anyone to leave the program…” He shot a quick glance at Nigel, who blanched at the mere suggestion. “…however I must warn you that these next two years will be some of the most intense study of your lives. Your groupmates will become like family, so it is crucial to get along with each other and to set aside any egotism…” Another quick glance at Nigel.

Henry raised his hand. “Sir, if there is a serious conflict, then what do we do?”

“Ideally you should resolve your own conflicts. You are adults and fully qualified witches and wizards. On the other hand, should there be some extreme situation, then you bring the problem to me, and I will act as arbitrator. Any other questions?”

No one raised a hand. Nigel still reeled from Fowler’s comments and hoped he wouldn’t stick him in a group that he expected to fail.

“Now then now then now then,” Fowler continued, “I shall read the names of the groups. Group one: Frieda Miller, Marcus Belby, Daisy Hayes and Adam Casy. Group two: William Hendrickson, Amir Kharloubian, Maria Kensington and Anuarite Mbute. Group three: Henry Prewett, Polly Marks, Hugh Smedley and Nigel Weasley-Chaucer. Any questions?”

No questions. Fowler nodded appreciatively. But then…

Nigel raised his hand. Fowler frowned slightly, but called on Nigel. “Sir, are we responsible for our own work, or for our work as a group?” he asked. 

He hated to be fussy, but he remembered both Polly and Hugh to be among the worst students of their year. Henry, a Gryffindor one year behind Ginny, had been known as a top student and the class clown. His NEWT grades were nearly as good as Nigel’s. On the other hand, Polly, a Hufflepuff in Ginny’s class, barely scraped by on her NEWTs. In fact, when Nigel saw her at St. Mungo’s a year ago to begin their theory classes, he wondered how she had been admitted into the program at all. And then there was Hugh, from Nigel’s own house, Slytherin. Hugh was clever enough, but at Hogwarts he generally relied on other students to do the bulk of the work for him, sort of like Draco. But unlike Draco, Hugh wasn’t always clever enough to fake his way through his exams.

Nigel wondered what would happen to their little group, especially if they did have to do group projects. He knew very well, as did the rest of the students, that the other groups would not have the same challenges. Frieda, Marcus, Daisy and Adam were excellent students, dependable, clever, resourceful. Will got nearly all Os on his NEWTs—Amir, Maria and Anuarite did get straight Os.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Fowler replied in a sniffy voice, “I was just getting to that, if I may have a chance. We are more orderly here than perhaps they are in the Minister’s office. Everyone must wait their turn.”

Nigel blushed. This was getting very old very quickly.

“Now then now then now then,” Fowler continued, “the projects and essays you shall write for this internship are a combination of group and individual work. For the group projects, each person is designated a role, and it is up to that person to fulfill that role so that the rest of the group doesn’t suffer the consequences…”

* * * * *

“I’m screwed,” Nigel mourned. 

He and Ginny sat in their favourite muggle coffee shop that evening, eating ham sandwiches and drinking tea. Ginny had finished her article for the magazine—after their supper, the two of them planned to deliver it to the magazine together. Nigel always enjoyed visiting the offices of _Quidditch World Weekly_. Though he never played at the sport, it had quickly become his favourite thing to watch, and he only wished that muggles could witness such a phenomenon as Viktor Krum, flying at blinding speed on his broom, hurtling downward in a desperate lunge for the elusive Snitch.

The offices of _Quidditch World Weekly_ were almost as exciting as a Quidditch match itself. People dashed to and fro in the cramped office space, sometimes nearly knocking into each other as they raced to read, review, research and print up articles, stats, photos, and more. Ginny generally interviewed the players, and occasionally would review a match or offer analysis afterward. And of course, everyone at the magazine knew that all things led straight to the World Cup, which was slated for 2002. The 1998 was cancelled due to the dangerous situation and the end of the war, and so, the International Department of Magical Games and Sports decided to make the upcoming match a great spectacle.

Every time Nigel visited Ginny’s office, her boss, Marty Costa, bombarded Nigel with adulations and invitations. “When are you and Ginny coming over for dinner?” “Hey Nigel, I want to buy you a firewhiskey at a match real soon!” “Hey, I bet you’ll be the guest of honour at the World Cup next year!”

Nigel couldn’t help but feel somewhat conspicuous during those encounters with Marty—his fame was something he never quite got used to, even when he was in the Ministry, in the public eye with so much weight on his shoulders. Most days these days, Nigel had gone back to a certain, comfortable level of anonymity, though he knew he would never be completely invisible. His greatest wish was that he could be judged not for his strange status as the only person to become a wizard, and instead for his talents and his mind. People like Marty Costa and Orric Fowler didn’t make things much easier for him.

The next morning when Nigel walked into the seminar room, Amir and Anuarite sniggered as he headed over to sit with his group. Nigel shot them a quick, disapproving glance, knowing he could obliterate the lot of them with a flick of his eyebrow if he so wished, and took his place between the very large Henry and the very pale Polly. He nonchalantly took out a scroll of parchment and his quill and ink, poising himself ready to get going.

“So, Chaucer,” Amir said haughtily, “I hear this internship’s pretty tough.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Nigel replied coolly. “Are you up for it?”

Amir snorted derisively. “Are you all?”

“I think we can handle it,” Nigel said, barely masking his annoyance. He felt like he was back at Hogwarts again, as if he were a child again.

“Say, Chaucer, how do like the way we were all split up?”

Nigel knew how he wanted to respond, but it was impossible. If he had a shred of authority over Amir, as he did as Head Boy, he could have hexed him. But if he did that now, it would merely be considered an attack that could get him chucked out of the program. So Nigel held his temper. Henry stood up.

“Personally, I’m thrilled about the way we were split up, Kharloubian,” Henry replied, his voice stiff with indignation. “I’m not stuck with a bunch of tight-arse kiss-ups.”

Amir’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink. He frowned. “We’ll just see about that. Unlike some here, nobody’s perfect.” And with a humph, he took his seat with his group, just as Fowler walked in with yet another stack of parchments for them.

“Now then now then now then,” he started, quickly handing out the parchments to each intern. “I’ve got your rotation for the next two years. You can take note of where you’ll start and where you’ll end. As I said before, after you take your board exams, you will spend your third and final year of internship in the department of your choice, providing that you pass your exams and that you are approved by the department.”

Nigel looked at the schedule and frowned. The most difficult departments were the first on his group’s list: spell damage and creature-induced injuries. He also noticed that Amir’s group had the most basic department first—artifact accidents, which translated to broken bones, cuts, scrapes and simple burns. It became clear to him what Fowler’s agenda was—give him the lowest-achieving students to work with in the most challenging departments. Many of the patients in the spell damage department were permanently injured, some incapable of functioning in the general population.

But it gave Nigel a thought. Perhaps this would be a chance for his little group to outdo anyone’s expectations of them. And if they could pool their resources and find a way to help someone who was deemed hopeless, then perhaps they would be able to survive the next two years together, in spite of Fowler.

Henry poked Nigel in the ribs at lunch that afternoon. “Say, Chaucer, why did Fowler stick someone like you with the rest of us?”

“So we can cheat off him!” Hugh crowed.

“Does it matter?” Nigel asked. He knew it did matter, but he strove to avoid a very uncomfortable conversation. Henry had a way of forcing truth out of people, though, which worried Nigel.

Henry took a bite of his bacon burger and washed it down with a glass of lemonade. “When Fowler puts the great Nigel Chaucer with a bunch of schlumps like us…”

“Hey!” Hugh complained. “Speak for yourself, Prewett!”

“We’re not schlumps,” Polly corrected him. “We’re cockups.”

Nigel sipped his tea and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Well all I know is that every one of us had the NEWT grades to get into this program.”

“True,” Hugh said. “Shocking but true.” He glanced at Polly, who now had a gob of mayonnaise on the tip of her nose.

“So we’ve all got something to contribute,” Nigel went on. “We may not end up being the most traditional group, but that doesn’t mean we’re destined to failure, does it?”

“No, I guess not,” Polly conceded. She furtively wiped the mayo off her nose and blushed.

Hugh grinned and slapped Nigel on the back. “See? I knew it wasn’t a mistake to get us all together. We’re the Fearsome Foursome!”

They all laughed, but then, Henry sat up straight.

“I think you’re right, Smedley. I mean look, the hell with the rest of those little self-important pricks! Amir is full of it, as far as I’m concerned. Ratty little Slytherin—no offence, Chaucer. But we’re just as good as the rest of them, and we’re going to show them that! Right?” Henry held up his glass.

The rest of the group followed in kind. “Right!” they declared, clinking their glasses together.


	3. Who is this Guy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So, Dr. Strangelove,” Snape said, rattling about in the cabinets out of Nigel’s view, “what’s this about you needing luck?”_
> 
> _“It’s nothing. Just a bloke at the hospital is all.”_
> 
> _“Son of a bitch, is he?” Snape stood up and placed a cobalt blue vase on the counter._
> 
> _Nigel nodded. “And he’s the director of the program.”_
> 
> _Snape frowned. “I don’t bloody believe it,” he said, suddenly outraged. “They’ve got Orric Fowler in charge of the interns?”_
> 
> _“That’s part of what the chief of staff is supposed to do,” Nigel said._
> 
> _“I read about his promotion this summer. Couldn’t have happened to a worse individual.”_
> 
> _“You know him, then?”_
> 
> _Snape rolled his eyes and shook his head mournfully. “Oh yes. I know the bastard well.”_
> 
> _“From school or…”_
> 
> _“From school,” Snape said quickly. “He was no Death Eater. He didn’t have the brains for it.”_

_Hillary Morse, age 31, Canterbury. Hit with a stunning spell at point blank range by her ex-husband, who then disapparated with their two children._

“How long has she been unconscious?” Nigel asked.

“Two days,” replied the Healer-in-Charge, Derek Penn. “What method should a Healer use to bring her back to consciousness?”

Silence. Henry riffled through his textbook for a moment, whilst Hugh eagerly looked over his shoulder. Polly shrugged.

Nigel looked intently at Hillary, lying so peacefully in her bed. He noticed a purple bruise at the base of her throat, and touched forehead with his fingertips.

“She’s warm. What other injuries did she sustain in the attack?” he asked.

Henry and the others raised their eyebrows in alarm. How did he know there was more to it than this?

“Why do you ask that?” Penn asked.

“This is a domestic violence situation, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

“So we can assume that she likely sustained other injuries from him, right?”

Penn smiled. “Very good, Chaucer. I’m glad you didn’t just go for the obvious. Take note of that, everyone. Any time you receive a patient, you must always see the greater picture.”

Nigel needed that little pat on the back, especially after enduring days upon days of limitations and manipulations at the hands of Orric Fowler. At least one person in charge at St. Mungo’s liked Nigel.

“Where exactly on her body was she hit by the stunning spell?” Nigel asked.

Penn pointed. “Right there, square in the chest.”

“Then her heart might have been affected, right?” Nigel asked, now looking more closely at the discolouration of her skin in that area.

Penn grinned. “Exactly. In fact, sadly, she had two heart attacks yesterday.”

Nigel bit his lip. “Well obviously we can’t give her a potion since she’s out, but I know that we can give her an unguent that will sink in quickly and target the injured area.”

“Might that not be a shock to someone in her condition?” Henry asked, concerned.

“If she has internal injuries, she needs to have those healed. Shouldn’t that lift the effects of the spell?” Nigel asked Penn.

Penn pressed the interns further. “What sort of unguent would be best?”

“A dittany-based one?” Hugh suggested, craning his neck to catch some of the words in Henry’s text. He thought he saw the word dittany on the page somewhere, but then again, he wasn’t sure that Henry was even on the right page at all.

“Why dittany?” Penn asked.

“That’s traditionally used to heal bleeding and bad cuts, right?” Polly suggested.

Nigel crinkled his brow at the suggestion. “Brynwart would be better,” he said affirmatively.

“That’s toxic!” Polly snapped.

“Not in small doses,” Nigel corrected her. “A very light compress should be enough. I doubt she’s strong enough for much more than that. Plus, she’s not ingesting it, so she’d receive trace amounts anyway. And its properties promote quick healing, which I think is necessary in a drastic situation such as this.”

Penn shook his head. “Brynwart is not normally used in our unguents here. We’ve had mixed results with it, in fact.”

“I’ve used it before, sir,” Nigel said. “A few years ago when my friend was badly hurt, my tutor and I brewed an unguent that was brynwart-based, and it healed him in about ten minutes.”

“But did it cause intense pain?” Penn asked.

Nigel sighed. He nodded. “Yeah, horrible pain, in fact. But it also worked right away. It saved his life.”

“It’s a controversial method, Chaucer,” Penn said. “I don’t know that I’m willing to take that risk and traumatise her further. She’s been through enough as it is, and the more traditional method will work for her just fine, even if it is a bit slower. Still, I appreciate your willingness to try new things.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nigel replied, a bit stung by the rejection of his idea.

Then again, Nigel had to concede that the man had a point about trauma. When he gave that potion to Draco nearly five years ago, his shrieks and howls of agony the potion caused still rang in Nigel’s ears. Fair enough.

As it turned out, the dittany potion worked extremely well, and by the end of Nigel’s shift, Hillary was sitting up and sipping her pumpkin juice.

“Where are the potions made?” Nigel asked.

“In the lab,” Penn replied. “Off-site.”

“So you don’t make them yourself?”

“Only sometimes, but usually I don’t have time. We have an extensive team of Potions Masters that research and create everything we use here.”

The prospect made Nigel salivate greedily. If only he could shake himself of Orric Fowler and make a home for himself in the laboratory. On the other hand, he truly enjoyed the hands-on experience that only came from contact with the patients. That was what initially attracted Nigel to the medical profession when he was a muggle, that opportunity to reach out to other people in distress and try to make their lives better—or at least their health. That was the ideal anyway. Nigel still wanted to believe in those innocent notions, silly as they were. He had seen enough darkness and despair in the last few years, felt all too sharply the horrors of loss—he wanted his innocence back, in some strange way.

But who was he kidding? There was no going back to innocence ever again. The best thing Nigel could do was push ahead, gleaning whatever wisdom he could from his troubled past. He remembered what Severus said to him long ago, that pain was the secret of his compassion. Pain was something Nigel knew all too well. Even now, at age twenty-one, Nigel still felt the physical effects of the accident that nearly took his life at age fifteen, when he was run down in the street by a lorry and left for dead. Over the years Nigel had battled enduring pains in his joints and muscles, which at times were so severe that he could barely get out of bed in the morning. These pains had lessened in recent months with the help of physical therapy, good exercise, warm baths and time to heal.

At lunch the next day, Nigel and the rest of his group sat in the cafeteria upstairs, at what had become their favourite table by the window. Nigel couldn’t get enough to eat that day, and within the space of thirty minutes had consumed three roast beef sandwiches.

“Slow down there, Chaucer,” Henry laughed. “You don’t want to look like me, do you?” He patted his large stomach and sniggered.

Nigel stuffed the rest of his third sandwich in his mouth and struggled to get it all down. “You look alright to me,” he finally said. He burped.

“Nice going today,” Hugh said, “saving our arses like that. You asked all the questions I wanted to.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Sure he did, Hugh.”

“He did! Only he got there first. I think Penn likes you, Nigel. He thinks you got spunk or something.”

“Penn’s pretty cool,” Nigel said. He took a cherry tomato off Henry’s plate and popped it in his mouth.

“Doesn’t that wife of yours feed you?” Henry asked, a bit irritated.

“We sort of feed each other,” Nigel said.

Hugh sniggered. “Sounds kinky.”

“I don’t get it,” Polly said.

“No, I mean neither Ginny nor I are very domestic is all.”

Henry laughed again. “Say, did you know that your wife is a relative of mine? Well, a distant one anyway.”

It suddenly struck Nigel that Henry’s last name was Prewett, Molly Weasley’s maiden name. “That’s right! I hadn’t even made the connection until now, but yeah, of course! You’ve got the red hair! Must run in the family. I suspect my kids will end up as redheads.”

“I guess you never know, though you’re pretty dark. My great-grandfather and your mother-in-law’s grandfather were brothers, only there was a bit of trouble a few decades ago.”

“Black sheep stuff?” Hugh asked.

“My great-grandfather took the side of Lord Voldemort, in fact.”

“Was he a Death Eater?” Polly asked.

“He never went that far, but he was sympathetic to the cause. So, he got drummed out of the family for good. He raised his kids to share his views and all, and they all did. But then my grandfather had kids, and raised them the way he was raised. My aunts and uncles all became Death Eaters, but my father didn’t.”

“Why not?” Polly asked.

“He was the family heretic,” Henry said, scratching his ear. “He didn’t like any of that stuff at all, but when he told his parents his own views, they flipped out and wanted to kill him. So he had to run away.”

“How old was he when he ran away?” Nigel asked, now fascinated by the story.

“Seventeen. He had to miss his last year at Hogwarts, too, so he never got a chance to take his NEWTs.”

“That sucks,” Hugh said disdainfully.

Henry shrugged. “He got work as a bouncer. Not glamourous, but it paid the bills. He survived. We all survived.”

“Was he in the Order of the Phoenix?” Nigel asked.

“He knew about them but never joined.”

Nigel sat back and wiped his chin with his napkin. “What a story,” he said, impressed. “So have you ever tried to connect with Molly Weasley?”

“What would I have to say? Hi, I’m your oversized cousin and my dad’s not evil?”

Hugh sniggered.

“No,” Nigel replied. “How about just hello, I’m family and I want to meet you? Molly would love it!”

Henry shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll think on it.”

* * * * *

As the week continued, Nigel and the other interns saw more patients, answered more questions and took lots more notes on everything Penn told them about treatments, potions, aspects of physiology, and so on. Nigel was itching to have a patient of his own, but he knew it was far too soon for that. There was still so much to learn. This meant long days in the ward and long nights in the library, sometimes with the group and sometimes by himself. Nigel read and read long into the early hours of the morning, and then after just a quick sleep, he got up and started all over again.

As hard as it was on his body, Nigel never felt his mind and heart more alive and fused. Each case was entirely different, each one a new puzzle to solve, and when Nigel and his group did manage it, they felt like royalty. There was a little frisson of excitement each time they resolved a situation successfully—usually because of Nigel’s insight and experience—leaving all the interns with a thirst for more and more.

And then, before he knew it, August was nearly gone, giving way to the cooler temperatures of September. Snape would be back from holiday, ready to start a new school year at Hogwarts. Nigel decided to pay him a little visit the last Saturday of August.

Nigel couldn’t suppress a laugh when he first laid eyes on his cousin. There he was, fresh from the summer heat and sunshine, and amazingly, Severus Snape looked as pale and sallow as ever. Nigel couldn’t believe it.

“Say, weren’t you supposedly sunning your pasty arse somewhere down south?” he asked, as Snape neared the main gates of Hogwarts. “You look like old glue.”

“Nice to see you, too, Chaucer,” Snape sneered. He tapped the heavy lock on the gates to admit Nigel.

“You’re in a good mood,” Nigel quipped. “All ready for the little monsters?”

Snape grunted. Nigel took that to be a no.

“Come on in,” Snape said. “I’ve got something for you in the Potions classroom.”

“Please tell me it’s a vat of Felix Felicis,” Nigel said. “After the month I’ve had, I could sure use a bit of luck.”

That made Snape chuckle. “Has the great Nigel Chaucer—excuse me, Nigel _Weasley_ -Chaucer—finally met his match?”

“You mean did I find someone more obnoxious than you?”

“Funny, Chaucer. I see you haven’t lost your brilliant sense of humour.”

Nigel stuck out his tongue at Snape. Together, they walked through the silent halls of Hogwarts, down the stone steps and into the Dungeons, where the Potions classroom was located. Nigel never tired of returning to Hogwarts, no matter what happened in his life. This was his place of initiation into the world of magic, where he first learned of his mysterious change and his unique status in the wizarding world. That first vision of Hogwarts from his bedroom window always remained in his mind, as the turning point of his entire life. His first excursion inside the huge stone castle had been equally fascinating and moving—he had never seen such a sight before, and at the time, couldn’t understand why no one else in his family or his town could see it at all.

Now that he was back as an adult, free from the Ministry and free from warfare, Nigel could finally relax in this environment and appreciate it for the strange beauty it held.

In the Potions classroom, Snape rummaged through his cabinets whilst Nigel sat at the teacher’s desk, glancing about at all the strange concoctions and horrid creatures floating in big glass jars on the many shelves.

“So, Dr. Strangelove,” Snape said, rattling about in the cabinets out of Nigel’s view, “what’s this about you needing luck?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bloke at the hospital is all.”

“Son of a bitch, is he?” Snape stood up and placed a cobalt blue vase on the counter.

Nigel nodded. “And he’s the director of the program.”

Snape frowned. “I don’t bloody believe it,” he said, suddenly outraged. “They’ve got Orric Fowler in charge of the interns?”

“That’s part of what the chief of staff is supposed to do,” Nigel said.

“I read about his promotion this summer. Couldn’t have happened to a worse individual.”

“You know him, then?”

Snape rolled his eyes and shook his head mournfully. “Oh yes. I know the bastard well.”

“From school or…”

“From school,” Snape said quickly. “He was no Death Eater. He didn’t have the brains for it.”

“Ouch! That’s pretty harsh!”

“When I was a Third Year, Fowler was Head Boy, and let me tell you, he was nothing like you.” Snape picked up the blue vase and set it in front of Nigel, then sat across from him at the desk. One week before the House Cup was awarded, Fowler was on a complete rampage, taking points off of anyone who even looked like they were breaking some obscure school rule.”

Nigel smirked. “And what did he catch you doing?”

“Why do you think I was doing something?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Snape shrugged.

“So?” Nigel prodded.

“Oh alright. I floated a very cranky Mrs. Norris over the heads of the Gryffindor table, just barely, that is.”

Nigel laughed. “That’s terrible! That’s not nothing!”

“Oh come on, Chaucer! No one got hurt. Sadly.”

“And I suppose you made sure she floated particularly low over Harry’s dad’s head, right?”

For a quick moment, Snape fought back a grin as he remembered the incident. “It was fairly amusing, actually. That Fowler couldn’t see that was a tragedy.”

“You’re a freak, Severus.”

Snape chuckled. “Actually, it was worth the hundred points I lost for Slytherin.”

“A hundred? That’s pretty harsh.”

“That’s what I mean. That’s the sort of person he was back then. I can only hope he’s changed, though I wouldn’t hold out much hope on that score.”

Nigel scowled. “So what is this vase for? It’s beautiful.”

“Purely a decorative piece, I’m afraid,” Snape replied. “No magical properties at all. I spotted it in Venice last week. I thought you two would like it.”

“How was your holiday anyway?”

Snape conjured two teacups and poured out some fresh chamomile tea from his wand. Nigel conjured the raisin scones. Snape took a bite out of one and grimaced. Nigel blushed.

“Next time, go to Miss Julie’s for scones. The holiday was good. I hadn’t been away in a very long time.”

“So you went to Italy. Anywhere else?”

“I spent three glorious weeks in Florence, Pisa, Assisi and Venice, then traveled down to Rome, Naples, Pompeii and finally to Sicily.”

“See any witches or wizards in your travels, or did you hang with the muggles?”

“I don’t know any muggles except your parents, Chaucer. Surely you know that. I visited a priest friend in Rome, and he showed me around the Vatican a bit.”

“Is he a wizard?”

Snape nodded.

“Does the Holy Father know this?”

“Of course he does! He’s a clever man.”

“True. So you saw all the inner workings of the Vatican?”

“It was truly inspiring, to be honest,” Snape replied. “I’ve always thought of religion as pure bosh, but now that I’ve seen the Vatican, I’m not so certain of that anymore.”

“So you’re converting? Can I attend your christening?”

“Don’t be cheeky, Chaucer. And if I recall correctly, you are a Christian, are you not?”

“C of E, not Catholic. I can’t imagine what my parents would do if I wanted to be Catholic. They had a hard enough time with me being a wizard!”

Snape raised an eyebrow as he sipped his tea. “From what I’ve seen these days, being a Catholic is far more interesting than being a wizard.”

“Why is that?”

“Because there’s something mysterious about it. For people like you and me, magic is something that can be mastered by our own power and focus—it is by its own nature self-driven. If you make the choice, you can advance in your magic at amazing rates, as you did when you were in the Ministry. But religion is different. Religion is about self-denial, about handing your power over to someone else.”

Nigel nodded. “True. That’s what my father always says.”

Snape sat back and finished his tea. “I shouldn’t have gotten so philosophical like that. My apologies, Nigel.”

“You don’t have to apologise, Severus. I think it’s great that you’re exploring other things.”

“About Fowler, Chaucer, I’m serious. Watch your back around him. He’s a snake. He may have busted me for a genuine infraction, but he busted a lot of other people because he just didn’t like them all that much or because they were in the wrong house.”

“What house was he?”

“Gryffindor.”

That shocked Nigel. He was ready for Ravenclaw or Slytherin, but not Gryffindor. “That threw me, to be honest.”

“That’s what people don’t get about him. When people learn he’s a Gryffindor, they automatically blind themselves. A person is not determined by the house they’re in. You’re proof of that.”

Nigel blushed a little.

“Any qualities a person possesses, such as ambition or daring or cleverness, are neutral. They’re just personal characteristics,” Snape continued. “It is what you do with them that makes all the difference.”

“So was Fowler taking points off of other houses so that Gryffindor could win the House Cup?”

“You’d think so, but no. He was doing it just to do it, because he knew he could. Authority in the hands of a man like that can be lethal.”

“So I’m just supposed to take it in the arse from him and say nothing?” Nigel asked, disgusted.

“That’s right. It’s only for two years, then you can be shod of him entirely. Seriously, Nigel, you must do this. Don’t get arrogant and try to outdo or outthink Fowler. He’s a rank traditionalist and he likes things just so.”

“Even if they’re outmoded and other means are better?”

“No. If it interferes with his control—that’s the issue. It’s not strictly about methodology, though I imagine that will become a part of it. You don’t remember Professor Umbridge, do you?”

“I think she was there when I was still a muggle, but I’ve heard all about her. I met her once when I was in the Ministry.”

Snape nodded. “Orric Fowler isn’t so different from her, actually.”

“I heard she tortured students in detention,” Nigel said, alarmed.

“Well Fowler won’t do that. Sadism is not his problem. Like Dolores, he is obsessed with power and control, even if it is over a rather small program.”

“It’s an important program, even if it is small.”

“True,” Snape conceded. “That makes it even worse, then, because he knows that he is in charge of the Healing arts for British witches and wizards.”

Nigel turned the vase around to look at all the detail, impressed by the artistry. “Then I’ll do my best to stay out of his way, like you said. But Severus, I think it’s more than that. He’s putting me into negative situations on purpose. This is more than control. It’s like a pissing contest or something, you know?”

Snape made a face. “What a lovely way of putting it, Chaucer. But you’re right, it is a pissing contest of sorts. You’re going to have to let him win this one. I realise this violates your natural sense of competitiveness and one-upmanship, but I think you’re strong enough to handle it. Look, Fowler is at best a second-rate wizard, but he thinks he’s first rate just because he scored well on his exams. You and I both know there’s more to being a wizard than simply getting Os on everything.”

“True.”

“Fowler knows all about your time in the Ministry, and he knows just how powerful and clever you are. That is no secret to anyone. He wants to seem better than you, more wise and more in control than you. You’re just going to have to let him.”

“Anything to complete the program, then?”

“Just be a good Slytherin and you’ll be just fine. If you have to kiss his arse and humour him and shower him with praise in order to manipulate him, then do it.”

Nigel looked askance at him. “He’ll never believe it, Severus. I’ll just stay away from him and let him have his way. End of story.”

“Good luck.”


	4. The Iron Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The day passed in its usual patter, with the interns working closely with their patients, under the watchful eye of Healer Penn, who noted down each and everything the interns did. Polly did fairly well that day, as did Henry and Nigel. Hugh, however, struggled with his patient, who kept throwing the potion across the room every time Hugh tried to give it to him._
> 
> _Around five-thirty or so, Nigel couldn’t remember the precise time, a witch from the front desk came running in, looking white as a ghost, shocked beyond comprehension. Everyone stopped for a moment to find out what was wrong with her._
> 
> _“So horrible!” she shrieked. “So HORRIBLE!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Part of this chapter involves the events of September 11, 2001. It is dedicated to those who helped in the rescue efforts on that terrible day in our history.** _

When he returned to St. Mungo’s Monday morning, Nigel did exactly what Snape told him to do. He studied his textbooks, attended his classes, made rounds with his group and caused no controversy. Unlike in previous weeks, where Nigel had become front and centre at every patient’s bedside, these days, he was content to stand in the back and let Henry take over. Nigel quickly learned through this arrangement that Henry truly was a talented wizard, more so than he had ever remembered from their days at Hogwarts together.

After classes were over and most had gone home for the day, Nigel and Henry usually retreated to the library or to Nigel and Ginny’s place to study—and to gossip. Polly went home to her parents house and Hugh never told them where he went at night. At the Weasley-Chaucer’s, Henry and Ginny immediately got along famously. When Nigel first introduced them, they didn’t quite make the family connection, but when Nigel mentioned Henry’s last name, that was enough. Ginny threw her arms around Henry’s neck and promised to introduce him to the rest of the family as soon as she got back from New York and they could all spend some quality time together at the Burrow.

“Sounds great!” Henry said happily.

“So when do you leave for New York?” Nigel asked.

“In the morning. There’s a big match between Yonkers and Pittsburgh that night, so we’re going early in the morning, New York time, to do a bit of sightseeing around town.”

“The time difference’ll be a killer,” Nigel said.

“We’re all so worked up about the game that I don’t know if we’ll notice the change. Probably when I get home I’ll sleep for a week! What do you guys have going on tomorrow?”

“Full day of bedside manner,” Henry said. “We’re hoping that Polly will eventually stop scaring the patients.”

Nigel sniggered. “She doesn’t always scare them, Henry. Only when she starts carrying about large needles.”

Henry laughed. “Like that old lady the other day! Gods, I thought I would fall on the floor laughing! I swear that old lady got ten steps closer to death when she saw Polly with that ridiculous needle!”

“What was she supposed to do?” Ginny asked.

“Give her an infusion of a potion to take away bedsores,” Nigel replied, still laughing. “She must have heard injection instead of infusion. Thankfully, Hugh stopped her in time!”

“Penn was pretty pissed off about that,” Henry said.

“I know. If she’s not careful, Polly’s going to get chucked from the program,” Nigel said. “I hope she doesn’t, though. There are few enough women in the profession as it is. We need people like her.”

“But if she’s inept,” Ginny said, “why keep her? I don’t care what her gender is as long as she knows what the heck she’s doing!”

* * * * *

The next morning, Nigel arose a little early. Ginny wanted to make him a special breakfast since she would be gone for a couple of days—first touring New York, then going to the match, then doing the post-match interviews with the players. Ginny didn’t expect to return to London until late Wednesday evening. And then she would be exhausted from the time changes. Neither knew if they’d get to spend any time together before Thursday or even Friday.

They spent part of breakfast actually eating the eggs and ham that Ginny had prepared, and the other part of breakfast doing…other things.

“You had sex this morning, didn’t you?” Henry asked wickedly as Nigel arrived at St. Mungo’s at eight.

Nigel blushed. “Let’s broadcast it a bit louder, alright? The other half of London didn’t hear you!”

“You’ve got that look in your eye,” Henry laughed. “Way to go, mate!”

Nigel grinned. “Well we are married, after all!”

“Hey, mate, you don’t have to explain anything to me.” And then, Henry whispered in Nigel’s ear. “When do you suppose was the last time Fowler had a bonk from anyone?”

Nigel laughed.

The day passed in its usual patter, with the interns working closely with their patients, under the watchful eye of Healer Penn, who noted down each and everything the interns did. Polly did fairly well that day, as did Henry and Nigel. Hugh, however, struggled with his patient, who kept throwing the potion across the room every time Hugh tried to give it to him.

Around five-thirty or so, Nigel couldn’t remember the precise time, a witch from the front desk came running in, looking white as a ghost, shocked beyond comprehension. Everyone stopped for a moment to find out what was wrong with her.

“So horrible!” she shrieked. “So HORRIBLE!”

“What is it, Sian?” Penn asked, concerned by her distress. He steered her gently out of the ward and into the corridor. Nigel, Henry, Hugh and two other Healers followed.

“Attack! A terrible attack! They’re all DEAD! Everyone!”

“My gods!” Nigel cried. “Where was this attack? Who’s dead?”

“New York! The Towers! They’ve fallen down and…” But she couldn’t go on. Sian dissolved in tears.

Nigel’s mind reeled. New York? Ginny was in New York. Was she anywhere near these towers? What towers was Sian talking about? There were many tall buildings in New York. It could have been anywhere. Quickly, another witch dashed in, wearing the same look of horror on her face.

“Did you hear?” she asked Penn. “The Towers? They were knocked down!” Tears streamed down her face. “It’s so awful!” she cried. “Those poor people!”

“What Towers?” Nigel asked, now coming to her side.

“The World Trade Centre! In New York! Some muggle terrorists flew airplanes into them, and then the buildings just crashed down!”

“Did people get away?” Nigel asked, desperate to know. Could Ginny have been anywhere near there? Could she have been a tourist there? He knew that sometimes muggles went to the top to see the view of the city. His blood ran cold, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. “Did people get away?” he demanded.

“Some did, yes,” the witch wept. “But so many…just died!”

“Are there rescue efforts going on?” Nigel asked, not caring that he was overstepping his authority at this point.

“Yes, but it’s dangerous!”

“Do they need help?” Nigel asked.

“Of course they do! Healer Penn, Chief Fowler has asked for ten volunteers to apparate to New York this instant to help with the rescue efforts.”

A panicked Nigel turned to Penn. “My wife is in New York, sir. You’ve got to let me go!”

Just then, Orric Fowler rushed in with eight other wizards, all ready to go to New York. “I’m taking these volunteers, Healer Penn, and I need just one more.”

“Mr. Chaucer has…” Penn started.

“Mr. Smedley, I’d like you to go with us,” Fowler said.

“Sir, I’ll go, though Chaucer here already volunteered,” Hugh replied, noting Nigel’s pained expression.

“You’re going, Mr. Smedley. Mr. Weasley-Chaucer has patients to attend to.”

This infuriated Nigel. “Look, sir, with all due respect to your authority, my wife is in New York, and…”

“And I’m sure she is just fine,” Fowler. “You are needed here, whereas I need these people to come with me to New York.”

“But sir,” Nigel seethed, ready to cry or shout or pummel him, “please, I…”

“This is a rescue mission, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, not a personal errand. Your wife is fine.”

Nigel flinched at the word “errand.” “So you’ve heard from her?” he asked, even more panicked.

“No I have not. And I do not think that cheek is the best response in this situation.”

“Cheek? What are you…” But Nigel stopped, knowing that if he said another word, he would find himself out of a job in the space of a minute. His mind was on fire with worry and frustration and sheer fury. Why wouldn’t the bastard let him go? This was iniquitous!

“You shall remain here to care for your patients, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, and if I hear that you’ve abandoned your post, you shall not be a part of this program. Is that clear?”

“Sir, may I call my wife on my mobile phone?” Nigel asked, trying his best to calm down. If he could just talk to Ginny, just for a couple of minutes, that would give him some assurance.

“You did not answer my question, young man,” Fowler said coldly.

“Yes, sir, I’ll stay. I promise. But please, I need to be able to ring my wife.”

“You will care for your patients first, and then you may ring your wife, and only after your shift is over.

“But it will only take two minutes, sir!” Nigel pleaded.

“That is enough!” Fowler snapped. “You are very close to insubordination, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. You will stay right in this ward to care for your patients, and you shall be monitored, and if you disobey me, I shall hear of it. Is that perfectly clear?”

Nigel shook with rage, but he took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and to prevent himself from throttling Fowler in front of everyone. “Yes, sir,” he said with clenched teeth. “Your will is perfectly clear.”

With that, Fowler, Hugh and the others disapparated with a pop. Penn grabbed Nigel by the arm.

“Stop, Nigel!” he warned. “Let him go!”

“Son of a bitch!” Nigel shouted. “This isn’t right! He can’t do this to me, Derek!”

Penn put a comforting hand on Nigel’s shoulder, but Nigel shook him off.

“Come on, Chaucer, now listen,” Penn said. “He’s already done it. Look, I know this is scary, but your patients need you—here.”

“Not even a bloody phone call!” Nigel spat, ignoring Penn entirely. “He’s doing this on purpose!”

Penn flushed. “Well I don’t know about that.”

“Why didn’t you stand up for me?” Nigel demanded.

“Because it wouldn’t have done any good. You know that, I’m sure.”

Nigel scowled. “How am I supposed to concentrate here when I can’t even communicate with my wife even for a couple of bloody minutes?” Nigel asked, furious. “What good am I to the patients when I can’t think straight? Dammit, Derek, you’ve got to let me go out there!”

“I have no authority to do that. Fowler would have me before the board for insubordination in an instant, and he’d have you thrown out. We can’t afford to lose you to Fowler’s whims, Nigel.”

Nigel could only give the dustbin in the corner a swift kick. “What do I do, sir?”

“You are a very strong young man, Nigel,” Penn said. “You’ve been through some tough experiences, and I know you have it in you to get through the rest of the day. You’ve got to think of the patients. They need you, too.”

Suddenly, Nigel had a thought. “Sir, could someone ring Ginny for me?”

“I don’t know how to use one of those things,” Penn replied.

“I do,” Polly said. “I’m muggle-born. I grew up with this stuff.”

Nigel looked desperately at Penn. “Please, sir? No one restricted Polly from making a telephone call. Just me apparently.”

Penn wavered for a moment, then relented. “Fine, then. Miss Marks, take about ten minutes to get in touch with Mrs. Chaucer, then come straight back.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Nigel,” Polly said. “She’s a powerful witch. If she were in danger, I’m sure she would apparate out.”

Nigel knew she would do that, of course, but on the other hand, if there were lives at risk, Ginny was the sort of person who would stay behind to get them out of harm’s way. That was what worried Nigel so much. He knew she might have been on the other side of the city when the planes crashed, but he also knew that the moment she heard about it, she would apparate straight to whoever she could help. He would have done the same thing, if it weren’t for people like Orric Fowler. Nigel’s heart ached as he returned to work, hoping that Polly would come back with a good report.

The next several hours crawled past at a snail’s pace. Nigel reluctantly but obediently tended to his patients, as instructed, but his mind was far away. Polly had come back with no news at all. The most she could do was leave a message on Ginny’s voice mail, telling him that all communications were flooded or shut down.

“Polly, would you do me another favour?” Nigel asked. If he were still in the Ministry, he would have given her an order, but he wasn’t in the Ministry any longer. He wished desperately that he were, just to have the authority to get the hell out of that ward and straight to his wife.

Polly glanced furtively at Penn, who was busy giving a potion to a rather hostile patient.

“Could you call my parents?” Nigel whispered to her. “Tell them what’s going on and maybe they can try to get in touch with Ginny. Can you do that?”

“Sure, Nigel. I’ll be right back.”

When Polly returned ten minutes later, Nigel rushed to her, frantic.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Talking to your mother,” Polly replied. “She’s a lovely woman.”

Nigel took a breath, trying to clear his head. “Does she know anything? Are they alright?”

“Nigel, they’re fine. Your mother has had the telly on all evening, and she’s keeping up with the news.”

“And?”

“And, Ginny telephoned.”

“She did? When? Why didn’t she ring me?”

“No reception here, remember?”

“How is she? Is she hurt?”

“No, she’s fine.”

Nigel breathed a sigh of relief. “Where is she? Is she in New York? Is she safe?”

“Nigel, she’s been at the Towers all day. She’s been helping get people to safety. She’s tired, but she’s determined. Here.” Polly handed him back his phone.

“Thanks so much, Polly,” Nigel said gratefully. “This means a lot to me. Did my mother mention how long Ginny would be gone?”

“A few days. She’ll likely be back no sooner than Saturday.”

“Gods, what a disaster!” Nigel exclaimed. “Those poor people. I can’t even imagine it. I hope they get who’s responsible.”

That night, Nigel couldn’t bear to go back to his empty apartment. He felt tempted to apparate to New York, but he knew that if Fowler saw him, he would be drummed out of the Healer program and Penn would get in trouble. All he could do was remind himself that Ginny was OK. Instead, he decided to apparate to the Burrow to visit Arthur. He needed some sort of Weasley presence just then, just to reassure him.

* * * * *

The Burrow was a bit darker than usual that night. Molly and Arthur were approximately in the same emotional state as Nigel was. Not only was Ginny out there helping in the rescue effort, but Fred, George, Bill, Percy and Ron had all apparated there as well.

“Harry, Hermione and Draco are there, too,” Arthur said mournfully. “Tonks and Kingsley are there, too. Half the Auror Office is there, helping out. The Law Enforcement Office, too, and over thirty Healers. Rufus also sent out a team of Obliviators to modify the muggles’ memories.”

“That makes sense,” Nigel said. “Especially if they were apparated out of the rubble.”

“Severus and Madame Pomfrey went, as well,” Molly told them.

“Severus?” Nigel gasped. He pressed his palms to his forehead and clenched his hair in frustration.

Molly set out some tea and a large bowl of fruit in front of them as they sat quietly by the fireplace, worried and wondering.

“Why aren’t you out there, Nigel?” Arthur asked. “You’re the one person who should be there.”

“Orric Fowler,” Nigel replied bitterly. Nigel told them all about the confrontation with Fowler at St. Mungo’s while Arthur and Molly listened mournfully.

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur muttered.

“Don’t get me started,” Nigel replied.

“Well, all we can do is wait,” Molly said.

Nigel and Arthur grumbled in reply.

In truth, waiting for a reply from anyone was easier said than done. The next couple of days passed as slowly as the previous ones. Nigel continued his work with the patients—he had been moved by Penn to the incurables ward, where he now found himself making sure that Mrs. Longbottom didn’t escape from the ward and that Mr. Lockhart was sure to eat his entire lunch. At first, Nigel thought it was tedious work, almost unimportant. These people had no idea who he was, where they were or that a terrible human tragedy had occurred just a mere few days ago. But Friday afternoon, something extraordinary happened that shook Nigel out of his torpor.

He sat by the bed of Frank Longbottom, washing his face with a damp, cool cloth before he gave him his afternoon potion with his oatmeal. For nearly twenty years, Frank and his wife, Alice had been prisoners of their own minds, having been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange. In all this time, all Frank could do was stare vaguely ahead, drooling a bit, absolutely incapable of caring for himself or thinking straight or even feeding himself. But then, something strange happened.

“There,” Nigel said, drying Frank’s face and putting the cloth aside. “How does that feel, Frank?” He smoothed Frank’s hair with his fingers and smiled at him.

“Good,” Frank replied brightly. For a quick instant, Frank’s eyes were remarkably clear, as if he were young and vital once again.

Nigel stared in alarm, not believing what he had just seen. “Frank?”

But then, Frank’s eyes faded again, back into his usual dreamy daze. Nigel felt the temperature of Frank’s forehead, then looked deeply into his eyes, trying to find something, a flash of any sort of recognition. No response from Frank whatsoever. Perhaps a use of Legilimency would enlighten him a little.

Nigel looked directly into Frank’s eyes again, but found it difficult to hold his gaze. “Legilimens,” Nigel said, hoping to see anything at all in Frank’s mind, any shred of memory the man might possess.

What Nigel saw blew his mind.

A small boy, just a baby. A lovely woman with dark hair. A flash of light, a woman’s horrifying shriek. The sterile white ceiling of the incurable ward. Moonlight. A passing double-decker muggle bus. Neville, at several ages—as a toddler, as a small child with raspberry jam on his face, as a man now, with his goatee and full moustache and slightly disheveled black robes. This was unbelievable.

Nigel rushed to find Penn, eager to tell him what just happened. Penn didn’t seem too impressed.

“We’ve tried Legilimency on him before,” Penn said. “We get scattered pictures, but nothing solid.”

“Everything I saw, or almost everything, had to do with Neville, his son.”

Penn nodded. “Yes, I know Neville a bit. He teaches at the school now, doesn’t he?”

“It’s his first year. My cousin told me Professor Sprout retired at the end of last term, so Neville’s taken her place.”

“I suspect that Frank looked at you and thought of his son.”

Nigel puzzled at that. “We look nothing alike.”

“No, that’s true, though you are both young, both have dark hair. In his state of mind, he’s likely to mistake any young man with his son.”

Penn had a point. Still…

“Sir, do you suppose I could sort of try a few things with him?”

Penn sighed impatiently. “Listen, Chaucer, I really can’t authorise that.”

“But I’ll do it on my own time. It won’t interfere with my training.”

“Nigel, look, he is incurable. We have tried everything we know to rouse him out of this terrible state, but he’s just too damaged. His whole mind is entirely warped from the torture he received. It’s a harsh truth, but you just have to accept it.”

“But…”

“All of us wish we could help Frank and Alice, but we simply can’t.”

“Have you tried muggle means?” Nigel asked.

Penn raised his eyebrows, looking a bit affronted. “Muggle means won’t work on them.”

“Why not?”

“Because the torture was magical.”

“But the effects are psychiatric,” Nigel said insistently. “That has nothing to do with magic. The same thing can happen to muggles when they’ve been through a traumatic experience, and muggle doctors have been able to use certain means to help patients out of their state.”

“And are you qualified as a muggle mind doctor?” Penn asked, now irritated.

Nigel scowled briefly, but refused to be disabused of his idea. “No, sir, I’m not. But I think if I can try a few things, they just might help him. It can’t hurt, can it?”

Penn frowned, but then his face softened. “What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know yet, Derek. I’ll have to do some reading first, some research.”

At home that night, Nigel scoured the Internet, trying to find anything at all on psychiatry and mental trauma. He found a few interesting articles, but what Nigel really needed was an expert, someone to talk to. The main problem was that Nigel didn’t know any muggle psychiatrists, and he wasn’t so sure that his parents would know one, either. On the other hand, he did know many muggle doctors from the hospital where he had been a patient after his accident. Perhaps they knew someone. The prospect made Nigel very excited. Perhaps after so many years, there might finally be a glimmer of hope for Frank Longbottom.

As the hours passed and the night grew later and later, Nigel faded a bit. Sleepiness overtook his mind and body, and before he knew it, he had to rest his head on his arms, pushing aside his laptop computer.

He didn’t hear the little pop when Ginny apparated back home that night, and he didn’t feel her soft hands graze the back of his neck as he slumbered, nor the tingle of her kiss as she pressed her lips to his cheek and his closed eyelids. 

But as the morning sun stirred him awake a while later, Nigel straightened up his chair, gasping at the sharp pain in his back as he stretched his arms over his head. He moved his head from side to side in an attempt to loosen up his aching joints—they crackled loudly and excruciatingly, making him wince and clench his jaw. Nigel stood up and headed towards the loo, but stopped at the welcome sight of Ginny, sitting curled up in their bed. 

He rushed to her to gather her in his arms, but halted when he saw the agonized expression in her tired eyes.

“Ginny?” he said softly. He sat down next to her on the bed, not touching her—he wasn’t sure he should. “Are you OK?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, as if it took all the strength she possessed to utter a simple word. All she did was shake her head mournfully. A tear rolled down her pale, drawn face, and it was then that Nigel put his arms around her slender shoulders and held her close. Ginny dissolved into bitter, exhausted tears.

“So many dead,” she mourned. “So many.”

Nigel didn’t know what to say.


	5. Nigel Takes a New Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With everything going on, maybe focusing on Frank Longbottom is just the distraction Nigel needs...so long as Fowler doesn't find out.

She was despondent, lost for words, completely altered. Ginny found it difficult to rise from bed in the morning, and more difficult to fall asleep at night. Nigel worried. In some ways, he knew what she was going through. After his near-fatal accident five years ago, Nigel had gone through a living hell of night terrors, flashbacks, horrifying dreams and severe panic attacks—it was only because of the two months of intensive psychotherapy that got him through those very dark days. Looking at his wife now, so deeply traumatised by what she had just witnessed in New York, Nigel wondered if perhaps a little therapy might do her some good.

Nigel didn’t go to the hospital on Saturday or on Sunday. Instead, he remained with Ginny, doing everything he could to help her calm down and to help her talk about what she had just seen. Ginny was less than cooperative.

“Ginny, you’ve got to talk about this,” Nigel insisted.

“Well I can’t, Nigel,” she declared tearfully. “Baby, I just can’t, OK? You wouldn’t understand.”

Nigel hated Orric Fowler just then.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you come?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you come to the Towers? To help?”

“I was gated. I had to stay here.”

“That never would have stopped you before.”

“I would have been chucked out of the program by Fowler.”

Ginny scowled at him. Nigel felt stupid just then. He felt weak.

“He couldn’t have done that, Nigel. You’re making excuses.”

“You’re being unfair!” he snapped. “I did everything I could to try and convince him!”

“You could have just apparated.”

“I’m telling you, Ginny, it was impossible! Fowler made that clear! What are you trying to say about me?” His temper was rising to dangerous levels.

She shook her head despondently. “Nothing. Just forget it.”

But Nigel couldn’t forget it. What was he supposed to do? Didn’t she get it? He couldn’t just run off like that—not any more. Scrimgeour would have understood, but not Fowler. Why couldn’t Ginny see that?

“Ginny, I’m not in a position of authority any more,” Nigel explained, trying hard to calm down and keep his reason. “In the Ministry, I had pretty much free reign, but not here. I’m totally subject to Fowler’s judgement, and right now, I’m doing my damnedest to stay on his good side, which is no easy task. Do you think I’m some sort of coward? After everything I’ve done, is that all I am now?”

Ginny’s eyes filled with tears. “No, of course not,” she said. She sniffled. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s just…” But she couldn’t finish her words. Ginny dissolved into heavy sobs. Nigel put his arms around her and let her cry. “I was so frightened the whole time, and there were just so many…I’ve never seen anything like it. So much death.”

* * * * *

Nigel didn’t return to St. Mungo’s until Wednesday, as it turned out. It was bad enough that he didn’t go to New York, but the last thing Nigel wanted to do now was to abandon his wife when she was in so much mental pain. And even when he left for the hospital that morning, the thought of Fowler’s wrath meant almost nothing to him. As much as he dreaded the inevitable tongue-lashing he would get, Nigel held firm to his choice to remain with his wife for those extra two days. The hell with Orric Fowler and his rules.

When Nigel first caught sight of Henry in the ward, he could tell that his friend was eager to lay into him and give him as much sarcastic abuse as he could dish out. But then, Henry’s expression changed, the wicked glint in his eye giving way to genuine concern.

“You look like shit, mate,” he said to Nigel. “Penn’s worried about you. He’s pretty pissed off, too.”

“I’ve been up a long time,” Nigel replied, accepting a proffered cup of tea from Polly.

“How’s Ginny?” she asked.

“She’s a mess. I couldn’t just leave her like that. I couldn’t.”

“Of course not!” Polly exclaimed.

“If I could have gone out there, maybe...” Nigel started.

“Stop, Nigel,” Henry said. “You know you would have gotten sacked if you’d gone out there.”

“Maybe I should have risked it.”

“That would have been stupid,” Hugh said. “Trust me, there were plenty of people there helping out. In fact, the muggles started turning people away because there were too many and it was getting way too dangerous to have so many volunteers. Even Fowler came back early.”

Nigel gasped. He felt as if he had just been punched in the face. “WHAT? That git came back early?” he roared.

“Will you shut up?” Henry cautioned Nigel harshly. “Penn is right over there!”

“I don’t give a damn!” Nigel spat. “That bastard refuses to let me go and makes a big show of going, and then he just bloody LEAVES?”

“There were too many,” Hugh repeated, more insistently this time.

“Then he should have sent you back, or one of the other younger Healers!” Nigel protested.

Just then, Penn stormed over, his expression furious. He grabbed Nigel by the arm and jerked him over to the side, whilst the other interns looked on with lurid curiosity. Henry looked ready to intervene, but stayed back just a bit, waiting.

“Look, Chaucer,” Penn seethed, “I know you’re pretty pissed off right now, and I don’t entirely blame you, but that does not give you the right to insult our Chief of Staff, even if he is a git and a bastard!”

“But…”

“I know you’re trying to stand up for yourself and your wife, and I want to be on your side, but Nigel, you can’t pull this shit! Especially not here! Chief Fowler already thinks you’re a show-off, and it’s stuff like this that will just prove him right!”

“But I…”

Penn pointed a warning finger at Nigel. “If I ever hear you sounding off like that in the ward, in front of patients and other Healers, I will have no choice but to report you. Say what you want after hours, and away from here, but when you are on the job, you keep your opinions to yourself. Is that clear?”

Nigel frowned. He knew Penn was right. Finally, he nodded. “I’m sorry, Derek,” he said. “You’re right. I was out of line.”

“How’s Ginny?” Penn asked sympathetically.

Nigel sighed. “She’s not well, not herself. I can’t even imagine what she saw out there.”

“She’s a strong lady. She’s been through a lot already. She’ll be fine in time. Perhaps we should prescribe a potion to calm her down, give her time to rest her mind.”

Nigel almost said yes. Almost. It sounded like a perfect idea, and in fact, the moment Penn suggested a potion, Nigel thought of six different ones that would work perfectly. But then he thought about Frank Longbottom.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” he asked.

“I can think of at least four potions that would work perfectly for her,” Penn replied. “I can order one today if you want.” He chuckled. “Look who I’m talking to. I’m sure you could brew up something for her in no time.”

Nigel nodded, smiling faintly. “True.” He wondered.

He wondered again about a potion. It could work, Nigel felt sure. But wouldn’t a potion just cover up the problem rather than solve it? That was a strange thought to Nigel. For years now, as an expert potions maker, he had always relied on their efficacy and usefulness, never having a doubt about them. But Frank had been given all sorts of potions over the years to try and help him regain his sanity, and nothing had worked. They had, in fact, failed miserably. The thought gave Nigel pause, troubling his thoughts.

That night after work, rather than going home right away, Nigel apparated to the gates of Hogwarts and sent up red sparks with his wand. After three or four minutes, Nigel could just make out the gargantuan outline of Hagrid, making his way down the path with a lantern aloft. Nigel waved.

“Hello, Nigel,” Hagrid said cheerily. “Wha brings ya here?” He unlocked the gate and let Nigel inside.

“Just here for a little family visit,” Nigel replied, shaking Hagrid’s huge hand.

Nigel made his way down the corridors of the castle, greeting people as he went. Loads of students stopped in their tracks to say hello or to shake his hand or just to look as he passed by. The crowd around him thickened to an impassable degree, but then like magic, everyone scattered like autumn leaves—a teacher had arrived. Severus Snape. Nigel grinned. Snape rolled his eyes impatiently and motioned for Nigel to follow him.

“The spotlight never does fade, does it, Chaucer?” he said silkily as he led Nigel to the Potions classroom.

“You sound like Fowler,” Nigel grumbled.

“Is he still giving you grief?”

Nigel told him the whole story about their conflict as Snape listened with disgust.

“Figures,” he snarled. “How he ever got that amount of power is beyond me. You would have been proud of Ginny, though, Nigel. She saved over thirty people over the space of two days. It was truly astonishing. She really is a formidable woman, even if she is a Gryffindor.”

“What about you? What was your role out there?” Nigel asked.

“Poppy and I went there to assist the Healers. It was hellish work. I’ve never seen such a thing, and I thought I had seen everything. The world is no longer the same,” Snape said mournfully.

“Did the muggles know you were there?”

“The Obliviators finished up after the rest of us returned here.”

“Maybe that’s what Ginny needs. An Obliviator.”

Snape furrowed his brow. “You wouldn’t do that to her, would you?”

“She’s having nightmares, she’s depressed, she’s been really traumatised by this, Severus.”

“We all have! Ginny is a woman, not a child, Nigel! Remember when Lucy was killed two years ago?”

“A year and a half,” Nigel said bitterly.

He hadn’t forgotten the murder of his muggle girlfriend, Lucy, killed by dark wizards as an act of revenge against Nigel. His world had nearly fallen to pieces after that terrible tragedy—it was a pain so deep that he still felt it at times, as if it had just happened. Should he have an Obliviator take away the memory of that, too?

“Remember what I told you about pain all those years ago, Nigel,” Snape said.

“That it’s the secret of my compassion,” Nigel remembered.

Snape nodded. “Precisely. Ginny needs to feel this, strange as that sounds. You can’t shield her from everything.”

“I know, Severus. It’s just hard, is all. I hate seeing her like this.”

“Just give her a little time. She’s tough. She’ll mend. She won’t be the same, but she will mend.”

Nigel strove to brighten the mood. “Say, I had a breakthrough at St. Mungo’s the other day, or at least I think I did,” he said hopefully. “Remember Frank Longbottom?”

“How can anyone forget him? You had a breakthrough with him?”

“Do you know anything about muggle psychology?” Nigel asked, hoping for the best.

“I know a bit. Dodgy business, though, dabbling in muggle science. Fowler will hate it.”

“I don’t give a shit about Fowler any more,” Nigel said.

Snape frowned. “Hang on, cousin mine!” he said warningly. “You have been an intern for all of a month! You have a very long way to go at St. Mungo’s, and alienating yourself from Fowler will get you kicked out!”

“I’m already alienated from him,” Nigel retorted. “Besides, isn’t there a board of directors at St. Mungo’s? They can’t just chuck someone out over nothing.”

“No. But if Fowler gives them reason to chuck you out…”

“But don’t they have to be objective?” Nigel asked, now worried.

“Ideally, if they’re not in Fowler’s back pocket, then yes, they can be as objective as anyone.”

“They can’t all be corrupt.”

“Most aren’t but enough are. That’s the nature of power and business. A man like Fowler rises to the top by politics, not by skill or knowledge. I’m telling you, don’t piss him off!”

“But if it’s in the best interest of Frank Longbottom…”

Snape clenched his fists in frustration. “You can be such an arrogant fool, Nigel!”

“But…”

“Forget muggle head doctors, Nigel. Forget them!”

“But what’s more important, my arse or a patient’s quality of life?”

Snape rolled his eyes in exasperation. “That depends.”

“That’s pretty harsh, Severus.”

“No, it’s life. Frank Longbottom has lived in that state for twenty years, and surely he’ll last for two more years. Then you can rescue the whole damn hospital.”

“Geez, Severus!” Nigel spat. “You think I’m a real prat, don’t you?”

“I think you are still entranced by the power you gained in the Ministry and at school. Your entrance into the wizarding world was far more than merely unique, Nigel. It was astonishing and wonderful and extraordinary. But now it’s time for you to get on with it and really live your day-to-day life. You do see that, don’t you?”

“Well what do you think I’ve been doing all this time? I think you need to be a bit fair.”

“You need to hear the word no, Nigel. I can’t have my cousin getting a sense of entitlement.”

“What do you think I hear from you all the time?” Nigel grumbled.

“Now you’re just being peevish. Don’t you dare compare me with Fowler.”

“I didn’t mean to, Severus. I’m serious. I’m just frustrated.”

“And you really think a muggle head doctor will work?”

“Yeah. I do. Maybe. We won’t know if we don’t give it a try.”

“Of course, I can’t tell you what to do, and I have no influence over what goes on at St. Mungo’s. Whatever you decide, I’ll give you my support. But the choice is yours.”

“I appreciate that, Severus. That means a lot to me.”

“Just do me one favour, and watch yourself, especially around Fowler.”

“I will.”

“And another thing. Remember that Frank Longbottom is a very sick man. He’s not a guinea pig for you to experiment on. Just be careful with him.”

Nigel nodded. “Actually, I plan to talk to Neville about this. I won’t do a thing without Neville’s consent.”

* * * * *

Neville was less than enthusiastic, to Nigel’s surprise. They sat together in the moonlight of Greenhouse 2, where Nigel helped Neville repot monkshood. Nigel watched with fascination and admiration as Neville carefully handled the plants—this was truly his calling.

“I’m not so sure about this, Nigel,” Neville admitted. “Don’t get me wrong or anything. I want my dad to get better, really. But after so many years, and with so many attempts to help him, nothing has worked. Why would your method work? You’re only an intern.”

“I know, Neville, I know,” Nigel said. “Look, mate, muggles have been dealing with this stuff for a long time, and in the last twenty years or so, they’ve made some real breakthroughs.”

“So they know about the effects of the Cruciatus Curse?” Neville asked skeptically.

“They know about the effects of torture. I’ve done a lot of research on the subject, and it’s my opinion that your father and mother have what muggles call PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a psychological effect of a traumatic event, like war or child abuse or rape…or torture,” Nigel explained. “The mind sort of shuts down, as a way of protecting itself, only sometimes the trauma is so severe that the person has a harder time recovering. Most people with PTSD can get treatment and function well in society.”

Neville scowled. “Well that’s not my father.”

“No, I know. I’m not saying he’ll be perfect or anything, but if we can try a few things, then…”

“Like what? What do you want to try on him?”

“Well, possibly the use of an antidepressant such as Prozac or Zoloft. That will stimulate the brain and get it out of its depressed state. But that won’t be enough, especially not for your dad. From what I’ve read, the best way to go is by psychotherapy.”

“What’s that?”

“Just talking.”

Neville laughed bitterly. “Talk? My father hasn’t spoken coherently in twenty years! And you want to get him to talk now?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy, Neville. But I made a connection with him, something real. I saw into his mind, and do you know what was there? I saw you, all sorts of images of you at every age, as if I were looking into a photo album. Neville, your father isn’t out of it. He’s not unconscious or anything like that. He knows you and thinks about you all the time, and I’m sure he is desperate to talk to you.”

Neville stood there, his arms limply at his side, his chest heaving with emotion. “Is this true?” he asked. “This is real?” His face was troubled, curious, astonished.

“It is, for many people,” Nigel replied, placing a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Look, I can’t make any guarantees or anything. That wouldn’t be fair. Like you said, he’s been in this state for a very long time, and we don’t know how deeply scarred he is psychologically. But if we don’t at least try this, then we’ll never know.”

Neville nodded resolutely. “Go ahead, then, Nigel. Do whatever you can for him.”

* * * * *

Nigel didn’t arrive home until well after eleven that night. As he approached the front door of their flat, he could hear music coming from the inside. Nigel wondered if Ginny had someone over. The music grew louder as he approached, rhythmic, forceful, pounding. Not really Ginny’s sort of music. On the other hand…

“Draco!” Nigel exclaimed as he walked into the flat.

Draco pointed his wand at the stereo to shut off the music. He looked stunning, mature, tanned and healthy—Nigel hadn’t seen his friend looking so well in a very long time.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nigel laughed. The two of them embraced.

“Just in London for the day,” Draco replied. “Ring shopping. Ginny helped me today.”

Nigel sat down on the settee next to Ginny and gave her a kiss on the lips.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, ruffling Nigel’s dark hair with her fingers. “You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have telephoned. I had to talk to Neville about something.”

“You really should have telephoned, Nige,” Draco said sarcastically. “I might have run off and married Ginny instead of Pansy.”

“You married Pansy?” Nigel exclaimed.

“Well, not quite. That’s what the ring is for,” Draco replied coolly.

Nigel laughed. “Is she pregnant?”

Ginny socked him in the arm. “Nigel!” she laughed. “You’re so subtle.”

Nigel rubbed his arm and winced a little. He had forgotten that Ginny could throw a pretty good punch. Actually, he was delighted that she did. It was a good sign that her spirits were coming back.

Draco blushed lightly. “Actually, Ginny, she is pregnant.”

“What?” Ginny exclaimed. “When? How?”

“Uh, well, in the usual manner,” Draco said. “I’m sure I don’t have to draw you a diagram. We found out last week.”

“How is she?” Nigel asked. “Is she feeling OK?”

“She’s pretty nauseated these days, but the healer said she should be over it in about a month.”

“So have you set a date?” Ginny asked.

“We’re keeping things low key, actually,” Draco replied. “I haven’t even proposed to her. I thought it would be sort of fun to take her to some place like Venice to propose, and to get married the next day.”

Very romantic, Nigel thought. On the other hand…

“Do you really think Pansy’ll go for that, Malfoy?” he asked. “I don’t mean to sound like a wet blanket or anything.”

“It’s OK, Chaucer,” Draco replied tartly. “You can’t help it.”

“Funny. But seriously, mate, I thought Pansy would be all into the big wedding with the white dress and hundreds of guests and everything.”

Draco scowled. “I thought about that, too. The only problem is that it’s usually customary for the bride not to be pregnant, especially if she wants to wear a white dress.”

Ginny almost laughed, but restrained herself.

“Lots of people won’t care about that any more,” Nigel said.

“Maybe not in muggle society, but not in the wizarding world,” Ginny replied. “We’re still rather traditional about that sort of thing.”

“Then why not wait until the baby is born?” Nigel asked.

“Because I don’t want to do it that way,” Draco replied.

Ginny sat back and smiled, leaning against Nigel. “Well I think that’s wonderful, Draco,” she said.

“What was that music you guys were playing?” Nigel asked. “It sounded sort of …muggle.”

“It’s a new band I discovered last week on muggle radio,” Draco replied. “It’s not the usual stuff I listen to, but it’s pretty cool.”

“You’re listening to muggle radio, Malfoy? That’s a bit radical,” Ginny joked.

“It sounds like hip-hop,” Nigel said.

“It is, genius,” Draco shot back.

“Aren’t you supposed to play classical music when you’re pregnant?” Ginny asked.

“Draco’s not pregnant,” Nigel replied.

They all laughed.

Later that night as he lay in bed with Ginny, sleeping peacefully next to him, Nigel couldn’t help but feel incredibly grateful to Draco Malfoy. In his own, brusque, strange way, his loud music and the news of his upcoming marriage and fatherhood seemed to break the foggy spell that had held Ginny hostage for such a long time. Her laughter rang out that night like a mystic hymn, filled with wonder and joy and healing. Nigel rested in that moment, drinking in its pleasure, content to have his wife back, even if it was just for a short time. Uncertain about how she would be tomorrow, Nigel took these precious minutes like little promises, like a portal to happier times where the memories would only be good and life-giving.

He hoped that all would be well.


	6. Fowler's Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Nigel arrived at St. Mungo's that morning, right on time, however, he was met by a very cross Orric Fowler. Nigel wondered what was going on. Fowler looked particularly irritated and huffy that morning, dressed in his fussy grey robes and mean little tie. Nigel felt tempted to jerk on that tie and strangle Fowler with it, but he restrained himself. He didn’t want to join the Malfoys in Azkaban._
> 
> _“Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Fowler said portentously. “A word, if you please.” With a sweep of his hand very reminiscent of Severus Snape, Fowler motioned for Nigel to follow him to his office. He could only wish that Fowler had a shred of Snape’s class._
> 
> _He was sorely disappointed. Nigel had a strong feeling what he would say—he didn’t have to use Legilimency to figure that out. But Nigel scrambled to figure out just how to respond. Could he beg for leniency? He had no idea what to say._

Nigel awoke the next morning to the scent of eggs cooking and toast toasting. He sniffed the air lightly, suddenly wondering where he was. Bleary eyed, he stumbled out of bed, his back and shoulders terribly sore and stiff. Nigel winced as he stretched his spine, then got into the shower and groaning with relief as the hot water poured over his aching body.

“Nigel?” Ginny called from the kitchen.

“Yeah?” he called back from the shower.

“Breakfast is ready in five minutes!”

The breakfast, as it turned out, wasn’t great. Neither he nor Ginny were much good at cookery, but somehow they had survived, either relying on take-away or fast food or generous offerings from Mrs. Weasley or Mrs. Chaucer. Plus, both were gone so often that neither had much time to learn how to cook well.

“So?” Ginny asked, sitting across from Nigel. She sipped her coffee and ate a bit of toast.

“So?”

“How are the eggs? I tried not to overdo them this time.”

“They’re fantastic,” Nigel said. He leaned forward and kissed Ginny tenderly on the lips.

Ginny laughed. “You’re a terrible liar, Nigel.”

“Oh no, I’m telling the absolute truth, trust me.” Nigel set down his fork and took her hands in his. “I’m just happy that you’re better. That makes these eggs perfect.” He kissed her again.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You didn’t. I was just worried. You know how I get. Mr. Anxiety Attack.”

“I suppose you were ready to have my head examined or something.”

“I just want you to be OK.”

“So do I.”

Nigel finished his eggs and toast. “So back to work today?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. There’s a match out in Cornwall that I’m covering. Ron’s extremely jealous. It’s the Cornish Pixies versus the Chudley Cannons.”

“You getting him tickets?”

“I told him I couldn’t, but Hermione is surprising him with box seats.”

“That’ll make his day!” Nigel said. “Look, Ginny, since you’re going to be busy pretty much all weekend, I’m going to make up some lost time at St. Mungo's. We’re moving to a new ward on Monday, and I need to finish up a few things with the Incurables. Especially with Frank Longbottom.”

“You’re sure you know what you’re doing with that?” she asked.

“If I only get a chance, then yeah, I’m sure.”

When Nigel arrived at St. Mungo's that morning, right on time, however, he was met by a very cross Orric Fowler. Nigel wondered what was going on. Fowler looked particularly irritated and huffy that morning, dressed in his fussy grey robes and mean little tie. Nigel felt tempted to jerk on that tie and strangle Fowler with it, but he restrained himself. He didn’t want to join the Malfoys in Azkaban.

“Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Fowler said portentously. “A word, if you please.” With a sweep of his hand very reminiscent of Severus Snape, Fowler motioned for Nigel to follow him to his office. He could only wish that Fowler had a shred of Snape’s class.

He was sorely disappointed. Nigel had a strong feeling what he would say—he didn’t have to use Legilimency to figure that out. But Nigel scrambled to figure out just how to respond. Could he beg for leniency? He had no idea what to say.

Fowler’s office was quite nice, very posh but distinguished. With its dark oak furnishing and deep crimson curtains, Nigel felt a bit as if he were back in McGonagall’s office. He sat down in the hard chair across from Fowler’s own, plush chair behind the desk. Fowler sat down and folded his hands lightly—that couldn’t be a good sign, Nigel thought. This was very formal…too formal. Was he getting the sack already? Nigel gulped and waited.

“Now then, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Fowler began, “I have heard from many sources that you believe you have made some sort of breakthrough with Mr. Frank Longbottom. Is this true?”

“I believe so, sir,” Nigel replied as politely as he could. “It is my belief that…”

“You are aware, no doubt,” Fowler continued, cutting across Nigel, “that Mr. Longbottom is hopelessly insane? Your own supervisor, Derek Penn, was one of the Healers who made that diagnosis.”

“That was twenty years ago, sir,” Nigel replied.

“Precisely. And in those twenty years, I’m sure you know, our very best healers and potions masters have tried absolutely everything known to us, and that nothing has worked.”

“I understand that, sir.”

Fowler frowned. “And yet I hear that you wish have a go at Mr. Longbottom.”

Have a go? Have a go? Nigel fought hard against the desire to have a go at strangling Fowler right then and there. “I have done some research, sir…”

“Yes, I’ve heard. Muggle research.”

“Yes, sir. Muggle research. There is a chance that Mr. Longbottom could be helped.”

Fowler picked up a quill for a moment—a quick use of Legilimency revealed to Nigel that Fowler felt tempted to jab the quill into Nigel’s eye. “Through muggle means?” he asked with a laugh.

“Yes, sir, through muggle means,” Nigel replied, remaining serious and calm. “There is a method called psychotherapy that is very effective, sir, and…”

“And you are studying to be a Healer, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, not a muggle head doctor. Or have you forgotten that?”

“No, sir, I haven’t forgotten that.”

Fowler stood up, pulling himself up to his full height—he squared his shoulders and looked down at Nigel, still seated. “Then I suggest that you adhere to magical means exclusively, that is, unless you wish to leave this program. Is that clear?”

Nigel stood up and looked Fowler in the eye. “Very clear, sir. I understand you perfectly well.”

Fowler grinned smugly. “Good, then you may return to your post.”

Nigel inclined his head submissively toward Fowler. “Thank you, sir.”

Out in the corridor, Nigel sneered under his breath. “Yes, sir,” he whispered mockingly. “Whatever you say, sir. May I bend over for you, sir?” He stormed back to the ward, stopped only by the grinning figure of Amir Kharloubian.

“Hey, Chaucer,” he called, “I hear you’re working miracles with the incurables!” Amir cackled and returned to his own group.

All Nigel could do was ignore the harangue and return to his ward and his group. Upon his return, Henry, Hugh and Polly were already hard at work. Penn stood at the door, awaiting Nigel’s arrival. The other Healers and interns glimpsed briefly over their shoulders, wondering and waiting for something, perhaps a confrontation or some congratulations or anything. All they saw, however, was Nigel passing by Penn, briefly nodding his head at him and then picking up a phial of red potion to give to a young boy with a purple splotch on his neck that made him giggle uncontrollably. Nigel sat next to the boy on his bed and swished the potion around in a large glass.

“OK, Denny,” he said. “Time for your juice!”

Denny looked over at Nigel with a confused, lost expression, but the moment he laid eyes on the potion, he snatched the glass out of Nigel’s hands and drank down the contents in a single gulp. Nigel ruffled his blond hair and moved to the next patient, a blind man with no hair and backward ears. Nigel applied a whitish paste that smelled like tea leaves to the man’s ears, though he knew very well that it wouldn’t reverse them. He wondered what the purpose of the potion was—all he knew was that Penn ordered him to do this every day. With Fowler on the prowl these days, Nigel decided his best bet was to obey, especially after the warning he just received.

But…

He could see Frank Longbottom sitting by the far window, looking blankly out at the passing traffic below. Nigel wondered what was going through his mind. Was he thinking about Neville? About Alice? About what happened to him? About nonsense? Nigel ached to find out, but on the other hand, he had been duly warned. Lay off or be sacked. He sighed heavily and moved on to the next patient, Alice Longbottom. 

By comparison, Alice was far more damaged than Frank seemed to be, or Nigel observed. There was no light in her eye, no sign of any recognition or awareness of her surroundings. This morning, Nigel’s job was to wash her face and give her some breakfast—today it was oatmeal and orange juice. While Alice could feed herself quite well, she tended to make a mess. Therefore, Nigel had to fix a large bib around her neck so she wouldn’t get her clothes dirty. Peering at her empty face as she dug into her breakfast, Nigel thought he could see traces of Neville in her brow, her nose, maybe a little in the gentle jawline—but it was so hard to imagine this woman as anyone’s mother. The thought made Nigel feel horribly guilty, and it made his heart break for Neville, who spent his entire life only knowing this version of his mother. 

As Nigel waited for Alice to finish her breakfast, he took a quick glance at Frank, who continued to eye him from time to time. From a distance, it was difficult to detect recognition, making Nigel desperate to sit with him.

With Alice done with her breakfast, Nigel cleared away the bowl and helped her clean her face and hands. She laughed and giggled like a little girl—Alice was in a good mood today, to Nigel’s relief. He glanced up to see that Penn had left the ward. This was his moment. He had to act, and quickly. Carrying the bowl with him, Nigel rushed over to Frank and sat before him. He took a damp, cool cloth and ran it up Frank’s bare arms, hoping for some sign of connection.

Nothing.

Nigel dampened the cloth again, then ran it gently over Frank’s forehead and face, looking as best he could into his eyes, using Legilimency to find anything, any sign of life or hope. At first, Frank’s mind was a blur of images moving too quickly to catch. Nigel glanced furtively over his shoulder. Penn was still out of the ward. Again, Nigel probed Frank’s mind, searching once again for something.

“Slow down, Frank,” he whispered.

Frank suddenly gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing. Nigel’s heart skipped a beat.

“Frank,” he said slowly, “I want you to focus on one image, and one only. Can you do that?”

Frank looked back at Nigel with seemingly empty eyes, but then…

A woman with jet black hair, snarling, almost growling, her wand pointed at Frank’s heart…and then it was gone, just like that. But Nigel knew what he had just seen, or whom.

“Frank, was that Bellatrix Lestrange?” he asked.

Frank’s eyes filled with fear all of a sudden, and he recoiled as if he had just been scolded or threatened.

“It’s okay,” Nigel said reassuringly. “She’s not here, Frank. She’s in Azkaban, for good. She won’t be coming back, I swear.”

Footsteps behind him. But this was a critical moment. Nigel fixed his eyes on Frank’s and put a comforting hand on Frank’s arm.

“Whatever she did to you, Frank,” Nigel continued gently, “is all over. Do you understand me?”

Frank remained frozen in his chair. Nigel could feel Penn behind him, but didn’t move.

“Nigel,” Penn started.

“Frank,” Nigel said, ignoring Penn, “if you understand me, give me a nod of the head, alright?”

“Nigel,” Penn said again.

Nigel continued to ignore Penn, waiting instead for Frank to move from his frozen position.

“Frank,” Nigel said, “do you understand me, that she is in prison?”

And then…

“Bsh,” Frank murmured, briefly frowning.

Nigel and Penn looked at each other, stunned.

“Did he just say?” Penn started.

“Bitch,” Nigel said.

“Nigel,” Penn whispered in disbelief. “This is a miracle.”

“Let me stay with him a while, please, Derek.”

Penn nodded. “Just be careful.”

Nigel turned back to Frank, whose eyes had glazed over again. “Frank,” Nigel said, “would you like to see Neville?”

At the sound of Neville’s name, Frank’s face lit up again.

“He wants to see you,” Nigel continued. “May he come?”

A moment, a pause, and then…a nod of the head, ever so slight. Nigel thought he would burst into tears just then, but he remained in control of himself. This was better than he had ever hoped for. Surely Fowler would understand that. After all, it was for the good of the patient.

* * * * *

That night at home, Nigel related the entire scene to Ginny, Hermione, Ron and Harry, all of whom listened with rapt attention. They feasted on hot pizza and cold beers.

“I remember the first time I ever saw Mr. Longbottom,” Harry recalled. “I just thought he was complexly batty.”

Hermione beamed at Nigel admiringly. “What is the next step?” she asked.

“I finally realised that I’m completely deluded,” Nigel said.

“Well we all knew that, mate,” Harry said jokingly. He took a long drink from his beer bottle.

“I wanted to get a muggle psychiatrist to see Mr. Longbottom, but I didn’t think I knew anyone. And then it dawned on me that I do. After my accident I had to go to psychotherapy, to help me stop having nightmares.”

“They must have been awful,” Hermione said gravely.

“You mean you remembered what happened?” Ron asked, amazed.

“They’re like flashes of memory. I was in and out of consciousness the whole time, so it’s all a bit fuzzy. The memories are not at all cohesive, but sharp all the same,” Nigel explained. “I can see the lorry coming. I can hear my cousin, Tony shouting at me to get out of the road and people screaming. I can hear my bones breaking…”

Ginny shuddered. “Nigel, can you not describe it?” she asked. Nigel noticed that her face had turned a ghastly shade of white.

“Sorry, honey,” he said. “Anyway, I started talking about the accident and how I felt about it with the therapist.”

“And? Did it help?” Harry asked.

“It made a huge difference. I still get flashbacks of it sometimes, and of course whenever I see the scars on my back I get memories of it, but the therapy showed me how to handle those memories.” Nigel sipped his mead and looked over at Ginny, who still looked distressed. “I think that Frank wants to talk about what happened to him.”

“I’d want to forget it,” Ron declared. He opened his third bottle of beer and took a swig, which made his cheeks turn a deep shade of pink.

“It was too much for him, for both of them,” Nigel said. “Their minds shut down and they both became imprisoned in their terrible memories of what happened to them. I want to free Frank from that prison, if I can.”

“But if you dredge up those awful memories,” Hermione said, “couldn’t that make him worse?”

“Exactly,” Harry echoed. “That was my thought.”

“People shouldn’t suppress bad memories,” Nigel said. “They should talk them out and gain power over them. There’s no sense in pushing back bad memories.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Ginny replied coldly. “Some people have more harrowing memories than others.”

Nigel knew what she meant. He took it as a sign to change the topic, but Harry persisted.

“I suppose it’s all to do with timing,” he said. “I mean, I remember when Sirius died, and how messed up I got after that. I kept trying to set it all aside, but I couldn’t after a while. I had so much anger built up over it, and I just couldn’t let it go.”

“So what did you do?” Nigel asked.

Harry sighed. “I just had to face it, that he’s never coming back. I had to admit it—it was the worst moment of my life, but it gave me a lot of strength, too. I think it became really clear to me after Professor Dumbledore died. I wanted to think that only bad people died like that.”

“That was me, too,” Ron admitted.

Hermione nodded. Ginny’s face became even more ashen and grave.

“How did we get on such a depressing subject?” Nigel suddenly asked. He gave Ginny another slice of pizza, which she gratefully accepted.

“I guess we all have memories that haunt us,” Harry said.

“True,” Hermione replied. “But we also have good memories. Like your wedding,” she said to Ginny.

Ginny smiled at that. “It was incredibly romantic, wasn’t it?” Nigel kissed her on the cheek. “And when Draco pretended to have stolen the ring, I thought my mother would go ballistic on him!”

They all laughed at the thought of Mrs. Weasley’s red face and flashing eyes.

“Yeah, and the vicar wasn’t so keen on Draco’s sense of humour either!” Nigel said. “My dad thought it was hilarious.”

“Hey,” Ginny said brightly, “did you all hear about Pansy?”

“Preggers?” Ron asked.

“Nice way of putting it!” Harry laughed. “Actually yeah, Hermione told me.”

“How did Hermione find out and not me?” Ron asked, offended.

“Girl talk,” Ginny said plainly. “I only gossip with the best!”

“So is Malfoy OK with it?” Harry asked. “I have a hard time seeing him as a father.” He finished his pizza and took a fifth slice.

“He seems pretty happy about it,” Nigel said. “He was going to do it properly and all, with a marriage proposal and shotgun wedding.”

“What? Shotgun wedding?” Ron exclaimed, mystified.

Nigel laughed. “I’m just kidding, Ron. It’s a muggle expression, you know, when a girl _has to_ get married.”

“I never knew Malfoy was so traditional,” Harry said. “He’s just a surprise a minute.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t use protection,” Hermione said.

“It doesn’t always work, you know,” Nigel said. “That’s what happened to a classmate of mine from my muggle school. She was with this guy, and they always used protection, but one night it broke, you know, and nine months later…”

“Did the boy do the right thing and marry her?” Ginny asked.

“He was a total ass,” Nigel replied sourly. “He wrote her a check, thinking she’d use it for a termination, but she was no fool. She used the money to hire an attorney to sue him for child support.”

“Good girl,” Hermione said. “Listen, Nigel, is Neville okay with all this?”

“I talked to him about it, and yeah, he wants me to do what I can.”

“What about his mum?” Harry asked.

Nigel scowled. “I don’t know about her, Harry. All I can do is one thing at a time.”

“But it would be kind of sad that Mr. Longbottom was alright again and not Mrs. Longbottom,” Ron said.

“But it would be worse to let him remain in that condition when there might be a way of getting him out of it,” Nigel said, slightly irritated. Didn’t he already hear this from Fowler? “Say you and Hermione both had cancer and Healers could only help one of you. Do we let you both die because we could only restore one to health?”

Ron nodded. “You made your point. I’m just saying it’s sad is all.”

Nigel took a long drink from his beer. “No, but it’s a good point, I mean, that’s part of the job—having to make choices like that. Patients aren’t just patients. They’re people. Sometimes I think that Healers get so caught up in the scientific aspect of the business that they forget that.”

“You mean Fowler?” Ginny asked.

“He made it clear to me that if I disobey him, I’m out of the program.”

“That’s a pretty serious threat, Nigel,” Ginny said, her face now stern. “You need to take that seriously.”

“I do take it seriously. Very seriously. That’s the whole problem!” Nigel said. “I just don’t know what to do about this. I’m on the brink of really helping someone, or at least trying to, and he’s a step away from sacking me! I don’t know what he wants.”

“Listen, Nigel,” Hermione said, “it seems to me that you’re being a bit unfair to Mr. Fowler.”

Everyone else groaned.

“Oh come on, Hermione!” Harry said, exasperated. “Just because he’s an authority figure…”

“That’s not it, Harry, and I resent the implication,” Hermione snapped. “Nigel, you have to see this from his perspective. You are a brand new intern with only a year of Healer education, and all of that theoretical. Do you really think he’s going to put a severely ill patient into the hands of an inexperienced person, just because you’re a Potions prodigy?”

“Great, Hermione, take his side!” Nigel growled.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side!” Hermione retorted. “And I don’t think you’re a know-it-all, either.”

Harry smirked. “No, Hermione, if I recall correctly, that was Snape’s title for you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “Come on, get serious for a moment!”

Nigel sighed. “I know what you mean, Hermione, I really do. But it’s not just that. I wish it were that simple, but it’s not. I’ve worked with that man for a while now, and I know that he’s being more than just cautious. It’s like he wants me to fail, just to prove some point.”

“Then maybe set Mr. Longbottom aside for now,” Hermione suggested. “Just until Fowler gets over his problem with you.”

“I think that’s terrible advice,” Harry said. “I agree with Nigel. If he can really help this patient, and if Neville says it’s okay, then it’s Nigel’s duty to help him. Mr. Longbottom doesn’t deserve to suffer any longer than is necessary.”

“And when Nigel gets his arse fired?” Ginny asked tartly. “Then what? We’ll live off my millions?”

“You can live off my millions,” Harry said, half-joking.

“We don’t want your charity, Harry,” Ginny shot back, deadly serious.

“I know, Ginny,” Harry said. “I’m just saying that we should have some faith in Nigel’s abilities. If he can restore Mr. Longbottom to health, then maybe Fowler will have more confidence in him.”

Nigel didn’t say anything for a moment. “Or I can kill Severus and steal his job.”

Harry laughed. “Or you could kill Fowler. Then maybe all the patients could get better treatment.”


	7. FIGHT!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thought he was doing the right thing by helping Frank, so why can't Ginny seem to understand?

The next few months passed in the blink of an eye, and before Nigel knew it, he was already well into his first year as an intern at St. Mungo's. He and his group had finished their first two rotations, and now were set to start up in the Potion and Plant Poisoning ward. While these patients were not incurable, many of them were severely ill, and more than a few of them had been in hospital for months on end. This was the ward that Nigel had most looked forward to. He figured that his sophisticated knowledge of potions and their effects on the mind and body would get to be used to its full capacity in that ward—in fact, he hoped that when he got a chance to choose a permanent placement, this would his ward of choice.

In that sense, Nigel suddenly saw his placement at St. Mungo's as a blessing rather than as a curse, regardless of Fowler’s intentions. By starting with the most challenging patients in the entire hospital, Nigel and his group found that diagnosing and caring for the other patients was almost a snap. And because they had to work extra hard to overcompensate for some of their deficiencies, they were well prepared to tackle their new patients.

The ten to twelve hour shifts, however, were more and more grueling for Nigel and the others. With few days off and little chances to sleep, everyone was running on low energy and dwindling motivation. All the same, Nigel found the work fascinating—in a short amount of time, he felt as if he had learned volumes and volumes of knowledge, and not just academics. Everything Snape had taught him was now falling into place perfectly, and he finally started to see just how well prepared he was for this profession. Here at St. Mungo's, Nigel had learned how to observe things about the effects of potions, how to see beyond the obvious, beyond even what he could learn through Legilimency. The most important thing Nigel felt he had learned was patience, something he had to admit was a tough thing for him.

But he did not forget about Frank Longbottom, and in fact, had continued to make him a sort of pet project—unknown to Fowler, of course. The last thing Nigel wanted was to get sacked, especially now that he was finally hitting his stride at St. Mungo's. Over the last few months, he had earned a reputation as a hard worker with good sense and a strong compassion for the patients. Penn had given Nigel his highest commendation, as had Healer Josiah Webb, from the Creature Induced Injuries ward.

“Mr. Chaucer, excuse me, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Webb told Nigel’s new supervisor, “is the most advanced, most naturally brilliant intern we have ever had in this ward. You’re lucky to get him.”

The pressure was on for Nigel to live up all that, but he would have preferred that no one had ever said anything about him at all. In a way, he had grown somewhat used to people making such grand pronouncements about him. How could they not, considering the extraordinary way he entered the wizarding world at age sixteen? As the only person who ever became a wizard, Nigel had always had to live up to some pretty massive expectations about him, that he was somehow special or touched by something incredible. Most days, Nigel felt far from astonishing. In fact, he usually felt as if he were missing something, as if he were making up for so many years as a muggle. All too often, Nigel felt as if he were stumbling along in his life as a wizard, with little to tell him whether he was getting anything right.

It was Ginny and Snape who gave him the greatest strength in those moments of self-doubt and hesitation. These were the people closest to him in the wizarding world, people who knew no other world than this one. They were the ones who made Nigel feel normal, grounded, safe.

He wanted so much for so many beyond himself—Nigel figured that was his biggest problem. It wasn’t that he meant to be a crusader in every aspect of his life. Rather, there was just a part of Nigel’s personality, the way his character was wired together that plunged him into one passionate tirade after another. But now, for the first time since he became a wizard, Nigel found himself against an adversary that was very likely far less evil than Nigel liked to think. Hermione’s words came back to him frequently, and as the weeks passed, he tried very hard to see things from Fowler’s point of view.

But it was different with Frank Longbottom. Of that, Nigel felt convinced. He may not have known everything about the wizarding world, but Nigel knew that ignoring the signs Frank was giving him would be negligent—how could he call himself a Healer if he ignored a patient?

And so, for the last several weeks, Nigel had made an arrangement with a muggle contact—in fact, with the muggle psychologist who had treated him several years ago, after the accident. This Dr. Warren was a true genius, as far as Nigel was concerned, the compassionate expert that Frank Longbottom needed. He would provide Nigel, in secret of course, with the necessary prescription and some careful pointers regarding psychotherapy so that Nigel would do it right. Penn wasn’t so sure about Nigel’s plan, but he allowed Nigel to go ahead with it, mainly because of Neville.

“If Chief Fowler finds out about this, Nigel,” Penn said, “you’re on your own.”

“Thanks a lot,” Nigel said bitterly.

So far, the results were minimal. Dr. Warren gave Frank a low dosage of an antidepressant, to stabilise Frank’s mood and lift him out of the deep depression he had experienced for such a long time. Nigel was unsure how muggle drugs would affect a wizard, and he was especially concerned that the drugs could have an impact on Frank’s powers. On the other hand, as sick as he was, Frank was unlikely to be using his powers all that much. The drugs turned out to be effect, but only slightly.

“I could increase the dosage,” Dr. Warren suggested.

“I think that would be a mistake,” Nigel admitted. “I don’t want his system to be overpowered so quickly.”

Dr. Warren gave Nigel a wink. “Well, you’re the doctor.”

Nigel blushed.

By the third week of treatment with antidepressants and a little talking, Frank had managed to make a few declarative statements:

_“I’m cold.”_

_“I’m hungry.”_

_“I’m sleepy.”_

_“Where’s Neville?”_

_“Nigel is my friend.”_

Nothing about Bellatrix Lestrange or Cruciatus or Alice. It suddenly occurred to Nigel that perhaps Frank was getting too many substances in his body all at once and that perhaps his system was getting confused. He knew what he wanted to do, and he knew that Penn would strenuously object. He would have to make his case.

“Look Derek,” Nigel said to him in the corridor outside the ward, “we’ve got a problem with Frank Longbottom.”

“Your progress is pretty slow, isn’t it?”

“We need to take him off of all the potions you’re prescribing him.”

“What?” Penn exclaimed. “Now listen here, Nigel, that is out of the question! He relies on those potions to stay alive!”

“But some of them, for example, the Lethargis potion you’re giving him is preventing the antidepressants from doing their job.”

“The Lethargis potion keeps him from getting loose in the ward!”

“But all you’re doing is drugging him and keeping him from thinking clearly!” They were speaking heatedly now.

“And we’re keeping him from suffering from further trauma,” Penn said defencively.

“Derek, you said I could have a chance to bring Frank out of this state he’s in, but if you keep giving him that potion, then we’re not going to get anywhere!”

“And if we don’t give it to him, then Chief Fowler will know what you’re up to, and then we’re both out of here.”

Nigel pondered for a moment. “How about this. We keep the prescription for the potion, but we don’t actually administer it to him.”

“You mean lie?”

Nigel didn’t quite like that word. After all, this was for Frank’s benefit, not his own. “I mean not giving Fowler any reason to interfere.” He could see that this didn’t sit too well with Penn, but he hoped that Penn would cooperate nonetheless. Silence fell between them.

“One month, Nigel,” Penn finally said. “I’ll give you one month, and if there’s no improvement, Frank goes back on the potion full strength.”

Nigel sighed with relief. “Thank you, Derek.”

“And one more thing, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Penn added. “When you’re on hospital property, you may not address me by my first name. You may be on a first-name basis with the Minister of Magic, but not here.”

Nigel was a bit taken aback by this, but he suppressed his desire to argue. “You’re right, Healer Penn,” he said more submissively than he felt. “I’ll remember that in future. But if you and I go for a beer sometime, can I call you Derek?”

Penn laughed. “Sure, Nigel.”

* * * * *

One month. One single month. Thirty days. Thirty-one, actually. 

Nigel approached the project with a mixture of eagerness and dread. What if it didn’t work? What if it made Frank worse? What if those memories were harmful? What if Fowler found out? Nigel would have to take the fall, both for himself and for Penn. What would Ginny say? He knew he should have consulted her, even gotten her permission to do this—it was likely she would have said yes. On the other hand, what if she said no? Nigel decided not to think about it, and instead, focused all his energies on his patients in the Potion and Plant Poisoning ward and on Frank Longbottom. If he could bring Frank out of this, then what else could Nigel accomplish as a Healer? He salivated at the possibilities.

In the Potion and Plant Poisoning ward, Nigel was put in charge of assessing the victims of plant poisoning, a challenge that he tackled with great enthusiasm. After all, potions were made with plants, among other things, and Nigel figured that he would learn more about potions by learning more about the effects of individual plants. At home, or at the Leaky Cauldron with Henry and the rest of his group, Nigel would pore over books and articles related to plants and potions—more often than not, Nigel found himself in the position of teacher, tutoring the others and answering all their questions.

All this work made it necessary for Nigel to schedule his time with Frank Longbottom very carefully. First, he had to find an hour of time each day to see Frank, and he also needed to be sure that this hour was free from interference by Fowler. Most days, this ended up being from nine to ten at night, after Fowler and Penn had gone home for the day and the night shift had arrived. Then, Nigel would go to work. Penn had agreed to take over the care of Frank Longbottom exclusively, fearing that Amir might give Frank the Lethargis potion, as instructed by the prescription. By nine at night, Frank was lucid enough for Nigel to be able to say a few words to him, and to try and get Frank to reply to very simple questions.

“How are you feeling tonight, Frank?” Nigel would ask.

Frank’s eyes would dart around, then squint, then dart around again. Sometimes he would grunt out a “fine,” but most nights he didn’t say a thing.

Two weeks into the project, however, something happened. Nigel brought with him a recent photograph of Neville and his new girlfriend. Nigel showed the picture to Frank.

“You know who this is?” he asked, pointing to Neville.

Frank looked carefully, squinting. He traced his finger down the picture of Neville, waving and grinning. He nodded, a flicker of a smile on his grey lips.

“Neville,” he said, softly but clearly.

“That’s right,” Nigel said.

“My boy,” Frank whispered.

Nigel’s eyes welled up with tears, but he held them back. “That’s right, Frank.”

“So old.”

“He’s a man now.”

“So beautiful.”

“Yeah, he is.” Nigel dried his eyes with his sleeve.

* * * * *

“You should have seen it, Ginny,” Nigel said that night. “He’s so aware of everything around him. I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere significant with him.” They sat by candlelight that night, drinking wine and looking up at the stars from their little balcony.

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me about this secret scheme until now,” Ginny replied.

“You knew I was working with him.”

“Not like this! Not in secret! I don’t get it, Nigel, why you would take such a risk and not tell me about it until you’re halfway done with it.”

Nigel looked downcast. “I was thinking of Frank.”

“No, Nigel, you were also thinking of yourself.”

“That’s not fair, Ginny!”

“You’re right, it’s not fair! You get found out and Fowler throws you out, then what?”

“I just have to be sure I don’t get caught.”

Ginny frowned. “That’s not good enough, Nigel! What if you do? What if there’s someone in that ward who tips Fowler off? Then what?”

“Look, what do you want me to do?” Nigel asked sharply. “Just give up? Let Frank go back to his old stupor so I won’t get sacked?”

“Gods, you are so arrogant sometimes!” Ginny exclaimed. “You think that just because you’ve got some noble crusade going on that you can just have your way, and heaven forbid that anyone say you can’t!”

“So the hell with Frank Longbottom?”

“I didn’t say that, honey. I’m really proud of you, that you finally got through to him. That’s a miracle! But I’m here to remind you, Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, that you and I are married! We’re a team! The choices we both make affect the other, and if you lose your position, then we’re both in trouble. You’ve got to keep me included in decisions like this!”

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” Nigel said glumly. He reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled away.

“Don’t,” she said warningly.

Nigel sighed dramatically and got to his feet. “Fine, Ginny. I won’t touch you. I won’t go near you! Is that what you want?”

“Don’t be so childish!”

“Childish? I’m the one making a huge medical breakthrough, but that’s childish because I didn’t get permission from my wife?”

Ginny jumped to her feet, threw down her napkin and stormed inside, where she grabbed her coat from the closet. “I’m going out for a while,” she said. “I’m too mad at you right now to speak rationally. Don’t wait up.” Before Nigel could retort, Ginny had disapparated.

In a fury, Nigel disapparated, too, but not to follow his wife. Instead, he went to the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, in hopes of finding familiar faces there, faces that might be more positive and supportive of him. But it was too late and the place was nearly empty, except for a couple of old drunks and a hag. Nigel sat in his favourite table by the front window, the table he sat at the first time he ever visited the tavern. He sat there drinking one, two, three, four shots of firewhiskey, grumbling and muttering under his breath the entire time. The first shot of whiskey made him feel warm and cozy. The second shot made him feel a little smothered. The third gave him a stomachache. The fourth made the world spin out of control on its axis. Before long, he had to rest his head on the table and shut his eyes, still muttering mutinously under his breath.

Nudge.

Nudge nudge.

Nudge.

Groan. Grumble.

“Chaucer!”

“Shhtpt,” Nigel slurred. He looked up from the corner of his eyes, ready to hex the person who kept poking at him. But in the drunken swirl before his eyes, all he saw was white blond hair and a long, pointed face.

Draco reached down and pulled Nigel to his shaky feet, then, placing his arms around Nigel’s waist, disapparated them both to Malfoy Manor. The next thing Nigel knew, he was being pulled up the long, winding staircase, led down the corridor and then, shoved hard onto a big bed. The candles went out, and Nigel was left alone to sleep off the firewhiskey. Everything went black.

Morning light was a cruel tormentor. As Nigel slowly opened his eyes, he had no sense of how long he had been in this bed or precisely how he got there. He had his suspicions, but there was too much missing information. All too soon, the door opened, and Draco entered the room, carrying a tray loaded down with food and a pitcher of Bloody Marys.

“The Bloody Mary is for you,” he said. “The food is for me. Unless you’ve stopped puking by now.”

Puking? That didn’t sound quite right. “I was puking?” Nigel asked, horrified by his own behaviour.

“I had to sit by the can with you for two bloody hours while you puked you guts out. I didn’t know you were such a lightweight.”

Nigel rubbed his face as he tried to remember any of what Draco was saying. “I only had four drinks. Must have been powerful stuff.”

“Or you’re just a wimp. I seem to remember a time when you could down half a bottle just fine.” Draco smirked.

“Thanks a lot, Malfoy.” Nigel sipped the Bloody Mary and grimaced. “Horrible stuff.”

“Blame the elf. I never understood the concept of the drink myself. By the way, I sent an owl to the hospital to let them know you’re sick. Your supervisor said to get well soon and hurry back. Bloody rubbish.”

“Thanks, Draco. That was very kind of you.”

Draco sat back and buttered a scone, which he then shoved into his mouth. He chewed for a while and swallowed hard. “So are you going to tell me why the hell you were getting tight in a bar without your lovely wife?”

Nigel blushed. “We had a fight.”

Draco laughed.

“It’s not funny, Draco!”

“I know, mate. So why did the perfect couple have a row?”

Nigel scowled. “Because I’m an idiot.”

“Well we all knew that. Why are you an idiot this time?”

Nigel explained the whole story to Draco, who listened with a casual smirk on his pale face. “I don’t blame her for being pissed off.”

Nigel sighed, wondering if anyone would see his side of things. “Just don’t tell me that I’m used to getting my own way, Draco, or I’ll stick you to the ceiling.”

“Well since you already know that about yourself,” Draco retorted coolly, “I won’t have to say a word.”

“So I should let Frank suffer?”

“You should let your wife have a part in your life, mate, if you ever want to have sex again.”

Nigel was tired of the subject, though, and decided not to retort. He got out of bed and moved to the full length mirror on the wardrobe door—he looked terrible, pale, almost grey. His eyes were tired and bloodshot and his hair was a ruffled mess.

“Gods, I look like shit,” Nigel mumbled. “Makes me think of that night we spent by the lake.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

In the bathroom, Nigel splashed some water on his face and combed his hair. There. Now he looked better. A little better. “What are you doing today?” he called to Draco, who sat on the bed finishing his breakfast.

“Pansy and I are going to the Healer today. Baby check. There’s a chance the little brat might be a metamorphmagus. Pansy could have sworn she felt it grow horns the other day. Feel free to stay here for a while if you want.”

Nigel dried his face and sat next to Draco on the bed. He took a piece of toast. “Well, Ginny won’t be back home until Sunday or Monday…”

“Man, you really did have a fight!”

“No, I mean, it’s part that, but she’s also going to Russia for a Quidditch match. Moscow versus St. Petersberg. Should be good sport. I’m going to visit Neville first, then I’ll go back to St. Mungo's later tonight, make up some lost hours.”

“So you’re not giving up?”

“Of course not!” Nigel said.

“Even after you and Ginny had a major fight?”

“Frank is still my patient. I made a promise to help him. Ginny will just have to understand.”

At Hogwarts later that day, Nigel found Neville by the lake, sorting through what looked like a pile of seaweed, yellow and brown and orange. It gave off a pungent smell that Nigel could detect yards away. Neville looked up and waved at Nigel, grinning widely.

“Severus said you’d be out here,” Nigel said, sitting on the ground next to Neville.

“This is for the Seventh Years,” Neville explained. “Half of it will be used in my class, and half in Professor…in Severus’ Potions class.” He blushed.

Nigel laughed. “Must be strange, going from student to colleague.”

“I keep stopping myself from saying Professor. It’s really odd. So I have a feeling that you’re not here to talk about my career. How’s my father?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to come and see him tonight,” Nigel suggested. “He’s making real progress, and it’s clear that he knows you. In fact, I think he wants to see you.”

“Is he ready to see me? Should I tell my Gran? Maybe she should come, too.”

“I think one at a time would be best for now. I’m sure your Gran will understand. It’s just that he’s in a very delicate condition right now, and I don’t want to stress him out too much. You understand that, right?”

“Yeah, sure. What time should I come?”

“Meet me outside St. Mungo's at quarter to nine. I’ll take you in from there.”

“I know how to get to his ward,” Neville said. “I’ve been there a hundred times.”

“Yeah, but you see, you can’t be seen. Neither of us can.”

Neville frowned. “What exactly are you doing, Nigel?” he asked, now concerned.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Nigel replied. “But let’s just say that this is something that just a small few know about, and the Chief of Staff isn’t one of them.”

“So if he found out?”

Nigel shrugged. “It wouldn’t go well for me.”

“Then maybe you should stop. Look, Nigel, my dad is pretty sick. It’s not worth your future to try and fix him.”

“I know what I’m doing, Neville, really. He is making good progress. He’s said more things than I’ve ever heard before, and he’s making a certain amount of sense. Just trust me, OK?”

Neville hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded.

“See you at quarter till nine, then,” he said.


	8. The Sage Awakens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nigel never made it to his lunch appointment with Healer Penn. In fact, he never made it to his post that morning. Standing at the threshold of the Potions and Plants ward was a furious Orric Fowler, hands on hips, looking ready to strike like a viper. Nigel’s blood ran cold. He steeled himself and headed towards his post._
> 
> _“Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer?” Fowler asked, his voice icy cold._
> 
> _“To start work, sir,” Nigel replied simply._
> 
> _But Fowler blocked the door. “I’m afraid that is impossible, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. You are not going anywhere in this hospital except out the door.”_

He arrived just as he promised, precisely at 8:45, right before the entrance to St. Mungo's. Nigel was pleased. This night could very well be the breakthrough he had hoped for so keenly. Seeing a photograph of Neville was one thing, but seeing him in person would—or could—be a powerful and wonderful experience for Frank.

Nigel hoped it wouldn’t turn into a disaster.

Neville looked excited but concerned, very nervous. He had put on his best robes and combed his hair—and shaved off his beard.

“You look great, mate,” Nigel said. “You shaved.”

“I wasn’t sure he’d recognise me.”

Together, they went inside the hospital, but quickly, Nigel took Neville aside, into a dark little niche, unseen by anyone.

“The Chief leaves just about now, so we don’t want to be seen,” Nigel whispered.

“What do we do?” Neville whispered back.

“Just wait.”

Ten minutes passed, and in that time, Nigel and Neville could hear the sounds of people leaving for the day. When the noise quieted down, Nigel took a tremulous step out of the niche, motioning for Neville to wait. He poked his head out into the now empty lobby, making sure no one but the Welcome Witch was about.

“OK, Neville, let’s go.”

Quickly and silently, Nigel and Neville made their way up to the ward to see Frank in peace and quiet. Everyone in the ward was fast asleep except for Frank, who sat up in his bed, eagerly awaiting Nigel’s nightly visit.

“Wait right here,” Nigel told Neville, indicating a small examination room to the side of the ward. “Inside the room. I’ll get him out of bed.”

“Shouldn’t I help?”

“He might blurt out something when he sees you and wake up the ward.”

Neville nodded. “I get it. Inside here?”

“Yeah.”

Nigel moved forward, checking to be sure that everyone was fast asleep. “Hi, Frank,” he said in a low, soft voice.

“Nigel,” Frank sputtered.

“That’s right Frank, it’s me.” He took Frank gently by the arm and helped him to his feet. “Come on, Frank, we’re going to our special room.”

“Shh,” Frank said, putting a finger to his lips. He held Nigel’s hand tightly and moved along obediently.

Nigel smiled. “That’s right, Frank. Shh.” They stopped at the door. “OK, Frank, now listen. There’s someone in here who wants to see you.”

Frank’s eyes widened. “Neville?” he asked.

“Yeah, Neville.”

Frank gasped, delighted as a schoolboy. On his own, he opened the door and entered the room, Nigel following close behind. Neville stood up when his father entered.

“Dad, it’s me, Neville!” he said brightly.

As if time had never elapsed, Frank stood up straight, opened up his arms and stepped toward his son, wrapping Neville in a tight embrace. Nigel watched from the side, captivated and moved almost to tears by the reunion of father and son. It was almost like a dance, with each man laughing and looking intently at the other as if neither had ever seen the other before. Nigel almost felt like an intruder on a precious, very private moment, but he didn’t dare leave. If anyone else should walk in, even Penn, it could destroy the moment. He didn’t say a word during that hour, letting Neville’s presence provide all the healing care that was needed just then.

After an hour, Nigel had to bring the reunion to an end—this did not sit well with Frank, and he began to cry. Nigel took this moment to intervene.

“Frank,” he said, “Neville will be back very soon, right, Neville?”

“I’ll be back next week, Dad. I promise.” Neville dried his father’s tears with a handkerchief. Frank snatched it out of his hand and held it under his nose.

“I’ve got to take him back,” Nigel told Neville. “Come on, Frank. It’s time for bed.”

Frank turned to face Nigel, at first with sad eyes brimming with new tears. But then, in a moment, his face brightened up and his eyes clearead.

“Thank you, Nigel,” he said. “For him.”

* * * * *

“What does it all mean?” Neville asked Nigel. They sat in Snape’s office later that night, drinking cognac.

“Hard to say,” Nigel replied. “But I hope it’s good. You should have seen his face, Severus. It was amazing. I haven’t seen a glimmer of life since I started this treatment, and by the time we left, it was like Frank was almost normal.”

“The key word being almost,” Snape said. “I wouldn’t draw any conclusions from this for a while.”

“Nor would I,” Nigel said. “But I think he experienced real happiness tonight, more than he has in twenty years.”

“You didn’t get caught, did you?” Snape asked.

“No one saw us. I made sure of that.” Nigel downed the rest of his cognac and poured out a little more. Snape put his glass out for more cognac, too. Neville’s on the other hand, was barely touched.

“I hope it wasn’t a shock for him,” Neville said.

“I’m sure it was,” Snape replied. “That doesn’t necessarily mean something negative. Nigel’s been working on his ability to communicate for quite some time, which should have made your presence tonight easier to take.”

Neville nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

“Me, too,” Nigel said.

“Did anyone see you?” Snape asked.

“No one,” Neville said. “All the patients looked like they were asleep.”

“You know how Fowler will react,” Snape said warningly.

“I am very aware of it, Severus,” Nigel said impatiently. “He was long gone.”

“And when he notices a major change in Mr. Longbottom because of your program of treatment?”

Nigel balked at that. “Do you think the change will be that pronounced?”

Snape glanced over at Neville and shrugged. “Don’t ask me. You’re the expert.”

“It will, won’t it, Nigel?” Neville asked. “Isn’t that why I went there tonight?”

“How he is the next few days will tell us a lot,” Nigel said. “I have a day off tomorrow, so I’m going to go and visit your father in the late morning.”

“What if Fowler is there?” Neville asked.

“I’ll just have to deal with that when and if it happens,” Nigel replied. “Let’s just hope he’s got the day off, too.”

* * * * *

The flat was empty when he arrived home late that night. Ginny was still away in Russia, hard at work on the Quidditch circuit. Nigel took off his robes and climbed into their big, empty bed, wishing that Ginny were there, warm and safe next to him. As he lay there in the quiet of the dark night, he thought he could feel the smooth touch of her skin against his own. It should have given him a modicum of peace, but in this moment, with so much at stake, all Nigel could feel was a cold emptiness bristling inside him.

In the morning, Nigel rose, showered, shaved, ate a bit of breakfast and left quickly for St. Mungo's, eager to get out of that apartment. He decided to take the Tube that day, even though he was dressed in his wizard robes, wanting time to think and pray and hope that when Ginny got home…if she got home…things would be alright again, the same as before all hell broke loose in the world. He ignored the strange looks he got from people along his route to the hospital, focusing all his mental energy on Frank Longbottom and Orric Fowler and Ginny’s return home.

The hospital was bustling that morning, with Healers and visitors rushing about in every direction. Weekends were always busy at St. Mungo's, mainly because that was the best time for relatives and friends to visit their loved ones. Nigel tried to blend in with the crowd, but it was no good. Too many people recognised him from his days in the Ministry and stopped to say hello, shake his hand, even get his autograph. When Nigel finally made it up to the incurables ward, word had spread throughout the place that he was there. Normally, this shouldn’t have been a problem, but this time was a bit different.

But what puzzled Nigel more than anything was the troubled look on Penn’s face as he stood at the doorway to the ward.

“What?” Nigel said, worried that something terrible had happened. “Is he alright?”

“You were here last night, weren’t you?” Penn said sternly.

“You know I was. I’m here every night. What’s going on?”

“Come in and see.”

Penn led Nigel into the ward, where a sea of Healers stood around Frank Longbottom’s bed, examining him, asking him questions, writing down all sorts of information on clipboards. Everyone murmured and consulted and made pronouncements about Frank’s condition, but no one seemed to know exactly what had happened.

But Nigel knew. So did Penn. But did Fowler know? And if he found out, what would happen? As far as Nigel could see, Fowler was nowhere to be seen that morning.

“Should there be so many people around here?” Nigel asked. “Won’t that scare him?”

“He’s fine,” Penn replied casually. “That’s what’s so bloody astonishing. He’s fine.”

Nigel frowned. “How fine? Fine as in he’s never been sick a day in his life, or fine as in better than he was yesterday?”

“Somewhere in between the two, I think,” Penn replied.

Frank sat up in his bed, more alert than Nigel had ever seen him before, though it was clear that he wasn’t entirely normal, by anyone’s standards. Still, his eyes were bright, just as they were last night with Neville, and he seemed very interested—in a vague, mystified sort of way—in all the flurry of activity around him that morning. Nigel wasn’t sure how Frank was taking all this attention. Was this healthy or harmful? Either way, what was clear to him was that any interference on his part would be inappropriate and potentially detrimental to himself.

Standing back and watching was almost too hard to bear, but Nigel remained strong. The least word to Fowler would spell disaster. He just hoped that Frank wouldn’t let anything slip. Frank looked animated enough, though his ability to answer all the Healers’ questions was rather limited. In a sense, that brought Nigel a bit of relief. It gave him something to work with when he would return to the ward that night.

But as Nigel turned to leave, Frank said the unthinkable.

“Nigel!” he called out in a very loud voice.

Nigel froze. He knew he would have to respond. Slowly he turned, putting on his very best smile, for the sake of the crowd mostly. He took a tremulous step forward, inch by inch toward Frank’s bedside.

“Hi, Frank,” he said brightly.

“Where’s Neville?” Frank asked. Little spit wads had formed at the corners of his mouth. Nigel reached for a cool cloth to clean Frank’s face for him.

“Neville’s at Hogwarts,” Nigel replied.

“But I want Neville,” Frank complained.

“You’ll see him next week, Frank. Remember?”

“Next week?”

“That’s right. Next week.” Nigel prayed silently that Frank wouldn’t reveal too much about what went on the previous night. 

“Next week!” Frank crowed.

Nigel turned to go. “I’ve got to go right now, Frank. I need to go to work downstairs.”

“Bye-bye,” Frank said. He waved. Nigel waved back.

Penn walked out into the corridor with Nigel.

“It’s funny, about Frank,” Penn said. “He’s been speaking in these little maxims all morning long, like he’s some sort of sage or something.”

Nigel laughed. “Frank Longbottom, the Sage of St. Mungo's! I like it. Very appropriate. Actually, when you think about it, he probably is a sage. Can you imagine all the things he’s seen and heard over the years, totally unable to respond or reply? Amazing.”

“Yeah,” Penn mused. “Amazing. Well, off to work, right? Let’s have lunch today, OK? We can talk more about where we’re going with Frank’s case, now that it’s apparent that he’s making progress. We especially have to figure out how to finesse the details.”

Nigel frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means that it’s only a matter of time before Fowler finds out what’s going on, and he’s going to want to know how this all came about. He spoke to me in a very suspicious way this morning. Frankly, I’m worried.”

Nigel nodded. “Right. Good point. See you at one.”

But Nigel never made it to his lunch appointment with Healer Penn. In fact, he never made it to his post that morning. Standing at the threshold of the Potions and Plants ward was a furious Orric Fowler, hands on hips, looking ready to strike like a viper. Nigel’s blood ran cold. He steeled himself and headed towards his post.

“Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer?” Fowler asked, his voice icy cold.

“To start work, sir,” Nigel replied simply.

But Fowler blocked the door. “I’m afraid that is impossible, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. You are not going anywhere in this hospital except out the door.”

“Excuse me?” Nigel demanded, growing uncomfortably hostile. He knew he had to hold his temper, but it was nearly impossible in this moment.

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, boy,” Fowler seethed. “I know exactly what you’ve been up to!”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Nigel replied coolly.

“My office, now.”

“No, sir, I’d like to discuss this right here if you don’t mind.”

“Oh really? Well then, that’s fine with me, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. I know for a fact that you have been treating Frank Longbottom with muggle remedies, remedies which are unproven, harmful and potentially lethal!”

“Lethal? They’re not lethal! They are perfectly safe, even for wizards!” Nigel exclaimed, before he had the chance to check himself. His face felt hot. There was no way out of it now, thanks to his own lack of discretion. He silently rebuked himself.

“And you know this because you’re some sort of expert?”

Nigel decided not to reply this time, though that did not seem to disabuse Fowler from continuing his tirade.

“Now then, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Fowler said, “you have put me into a position that I never wanted. After giving you repeated warnings, you have striven to disobey me at every turn, and now you give me no choice but to refer you to the Board of Directors for dismissal.”

“For helping a patient?” Nigel retorted. He shook with fury—and with dread.

“For engaging in unapproved and unlawful practices on a very sick and vulnerable patient.”

“Unlawful? That’s ridiculous! Using muggle means is NOT unlawful!”

“It is unlawful for an unlicensed intern to engage in a major program of treatment on any patient!”

“But I was supervised the whole time! I was not just doing this on my own, sir. I swear it! Go on and ask Healer Penn! He’ll tell you.” Nigel was sure that Fowler would have to verify this. It was his only hope.

“I spoke to Healer Penn this morning, and he told me that whatever procedure you performed last night was not supervised by him.”

“Well no, not specifically, but he knew about it.”

“I have also learned that you have been denying Mr. Longbottom his Lethargis potion, and replacing it with a muggle stimulant. Is that good practice?”

“You’re making it sound like I’m some sort of quack! The drug I gave Frank was to nudge him out of his depression so that he would be more responsive to psychotherapy. The Lethargis potion was interfering with that, so we had to cease it for a while.”

“Without regard for his safety?”

“No! That’s not true!” Nigel started to panic. These charges were getting more and more outrageous, and he didn’t know how to react any more.

“Well the Board will be the judge of that, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. I shall be giving them a full report of your dealings with Mr. Longbottom, and they shall render their judgement after that.”

Things were spinning out of control, far too quickly for Nigel. He had to say something for himself, though he already knew that Fowler would ignore it. But he had to try.

“Sir, look,” Nigel began, “can’t we talk about this like reasonable men?”

“I see nothing reasonable in what you did. What I see is pride, arrogance and recklessness. That is what I see. And I can verify all this very readily, so you have no ground to stand on.”

“What do you mean you can verify this?” Nigel asked. He dreaded to know the answer, because it could only mean that there had been…

“An informant,” Fowler replied. He stood erect, triumphant. “For the last week.”

Nigel could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His hands shook with rage. “Who?” he demanded. “Who is this rotten spy?”

Fowler chuckled lightheartedly. “That is not your business.”

“It damn well is!” Nigel roared, forgetting entirely where he was and that he was speaking to the Chief of Staff. “You have been out to get me since I set foot in this hospital, and you are just relishing this, aren’t you?”

Fowler glared at Nigel. “How dare you!” he shouted back. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. I will make it my personal mission to see to it that you never become a Healer. You are nothing but an arrogant, overblown, imprudent and conceited menace that I have ever had the misfortune to meet, and the day you are dismissed from here will be a great day in medical history!”

Nigel clenched his fists, ready to use the slightest movement of his hand to render Fowler flat on his back—but Nigel restrained himself, using every bit of energy he possessed. But Fowler wasn’t quite finished.

“Now then, Mr. Weasley-Chacuer, I shall move for your hearing to be in two weeks time, but I will not permit you to step into this hospital.”

“You’re suspending me?” Nigel asked, his voice faint from horror and anger.

“I am sending you away, in fact.”

“You can’t do that!”

“On hospital business, as it happens,” Fowler explained. “I’ll be sending you to Azkaban, in fact.”

“Azkaban? On hospital business?”

“Yes. Hospital business. Every six months, we send someone out there to do checkups on all the prisoners. All you have to do is assess their health, and if they need something, you just give it to them. Simple. Unless it’s somehow beneath you.”

“So when it comes to patients like Frank Longbottom, you want a licensed Healer, but you’ll send the imprudent menace to the prisoners?”

“Yes.”

“Look, sir, I don’t mean to sound difficult or anything, but you can’t send me to Azkaban. It’s just not possible.”

“It’s that or being suspended without pay. Decide.”

“A lot of those people are in Azkaban because of me!”

“This really isn’t the time or the place to brag about your past accomplishments, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. I am not interested in your resume.”

Nigel sighed. He knew he had no choice in this, and that there was no more arguing with Fowler.

“Fine, then I’ll go. You’re not giving me any choice in this.”

Fowler grinned wickedly. “You don’t deserve a choice, young man. You are to report there at ten tonight. Do not be late. You will come to me first, at nine, to collect the things you will need for your two weeks there.”

“But sir, what will happen to Frank Longbottom in the meantime?” Nigel asked.

“Dammit, Chaucer!” Fowler snapped. “You are done with Frank Longbottom, do you hear me? No more muggle meddling! No more muggle drugs or psychotherapy! You are not to go near him! Is that clear?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Nigel seethed, any sense of propriety long gone. “No more progress, no more brightness in his life. Back to his insane stupor where you can manage him! Nice going, HEALER. You should win prizes for your innovative treatment of long-suffering patients, for long-term ineffectiveness! I don’t give a shit if you think me arrogant and overblown, SIR! At least I made real progress with Frank, unlike YOU! And when he slips back into his old state, it’ll be YOUR fault, not mine!”

“Get out of here right now before I throw you out!” Fowler shrieked. His face had turned a dark shade of violet.

Nigel turned on his heel and stormed out, back towards the elevator, ready to leave St. Mungo's and never return. The hell with them! He could do anything he wanted, write his own future. He could be a very successful apothecary in an instant! He didn’t have to put up with this shit, especially not from someone like Orric Fowler!

Nigel paused to catch his breath. “Oh gods,” he mourned under his breath. “Ginny is going to KILL me!”

Before Nigel left St. Mungo's that morning, he went back up to the Incurables ward, to see Penn one last time, to tell him what had just happened. Penn and he stood by the window, keeping a close eye on Frank, who still muttered little maxims to anyone who passed. Nigel looked at him with a mixture of grief and helplessness.

“What’s going to happen to him?” he asked Penn. “Fowler is going to insist that Frank take that Lethargis stuff again.”

“I know,” Penn replied morosely.

“You can’t let this happen, Derek! Please! Fowler is just going to let Frank go back to his old state, just because it’s easier! He’s a lazy, stupid idiot!”

“Keep your voice down!” Penn hissed. “You don’t want Frank to hear you!”

“Maybe he should,” Nigel said. “After all, it’s his life and his mind at stake, not yours or mine. He has a right to know. And Neville has a right to know about this. Maybe he can intervene. Frank’s mother can, too. She must!”

“And Fowler will tell them that if he wants his father to have muggle treatment, he’ll have to put his father in a muggle hospital.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Nigel said bitterly. “I don’t get wizards sometimes! There is such a prejudice against anything remotely muggle, even when the muggle stuff is sometimes better! It doesn’t make any sense! Wizards are some of the most backwards people I’ve ever met!”

Penn patted Nigel on the shoulder. “I know you’re frustrated, Nigel.”

“I’m angry, Derek. I’m fucking pissed off!”

“Me too, kid.”

“What’s going to happen? Will they really dismiss me?”

“If Fowler gets his way.”

“But I’ll be able to speak up for myself, right?”

“Of course!”

“Will I get to have witnesses?”

“It’s just between you and Fowler.”

Nigel frowned. “Because you don’t want to get sacked?”

“It has nothing to do with me, Nigel. I am not allowed to testify. This isn’t like the Wizengamot, unfortunately. Fowler is the expert, and he’s the Chief of Staff.”

“And I’m just an intern! What defence do I have?”

“Your intentions. Your reputation. The wizarding world regards you as a hero, Nigel, and they know you are every bit as powerful as Albus Dumbledore. We’ve all known that for years, especially when you were in the Ministry. This won’t be any ordinary fight for Orric Fowler. He will have to prove that you are incompetent, and considering Frank’s progress, that will be no easy task.”

“But I disobeyed him. I ignored his threats. I snuck about, even behind your back sometimes. That’s not good for me.”

“Both of you are in the fight of your lives. Just be ready, and do whatever is necessary. That’s all you’ve got.”


	9. Mission to Azkaban

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All that was left for Nigel was a horrific excursion to Azkaban—and why was he even going? He wondered that as he walked down the street, ignoring the strange looks people gave him as they eyed his wizard’s robes. His mind was completely occupied by this crisis and too many questions. What if he didn’t go to Azkaban? What he told Fowler to go himself to that awful place? After all, if he was going to get sacked anyway, why go through with the pretense of obedience? What would it do for him? Problem: what if the Board was sympathetic towards Nigel? And what if his disobedience and refusal to go to Azkaban turned them against him?_
> 
> _Enough said. He’d go._
> 
> _In the meantime, however, there was another hell he would have to face—telling the bad news to Ginny._

Nigel stood outside St. Mungo's, utterly devastated. He stood at the brink of complete loss—his career, something he had dreamed of for so long, now stood nearly in ruins, should Orric Fowler get his way. Nothing could help—nothing at all. Nigel knew he had crossed a professional line, and he didn’t see a way of arguing out of that reality. But he wondered whether he would have had to if Fowler had let him do the work that was successful. Nigel had no way of knowing any more. What was clear to him was that Fowler was about to get his wish—to be rid of Nigel for good.

All that was left for Nigel was a horrific excursion to Azkaban—and why was he even going? He wondered that as he walked down the street, ignoring the strange looks people gave him as they eyed his wizard’s robes. His mind was completely occupied by this crisis and too many questions. What if he didn’t go to Azkaban? What he told Fowler to go himself to that awful place? After all, if he was going to get sacked anyway, why go through with the pretense of obedience? What would it do for him? Problem: what if the Board was sympathetic towards Nigel? And what if his disobedience and refusal to go to Azkaban turned them against him? 

Enough said. He’d go.

In the meantime, however, there was another hell he would have to face—telling the bad news to Ginny. Nigel had no way of knowing how she would react to this. All he could remember was the fight they’d so recently had over his lack of communication and his risky choices at work. He shuddered with dread at the potential blowout they would have over this, far more serious development. She would say, “I told you so!” Nigel was sure of that. He wondered if she might throw a vase at him, like he’d seen in muggle cinema when a wife was furious with her lousy husband. Ginny didn’t seem like a thrower—she preferred to hex the people that irritated her. Would it be her famous bat-bogey hex or would it be something worse? Nigel couldn’t help but feel like a naughty schoolboy just then, waiting for the axe to fall on him in punishment for his sins.

As he walked down the corridor towards their flat, Nigel hoped she wouldn’t be home. He imagined coming in, full of contrition and kind words, only to discover that his beloved was nowhere to be found.

But that was not the case this time. He gulped. Ginny sat at the breakfast table reading the _Daily Prophet_ and finishing her morning coffee and toast. She looked up at him and smiled, but quickly puzzled at his presence. Ginny frowned. Nigel’s mouth ran dry.

“What are you doing home?” she asked. “It’s early.”

Nigel hesitated, which made Ginny frown more deeply. “Look, Ginny,” he started lamely.

“What happened?” she asked. “You didn’t get sacked, did you?”

“Not exactly. Not yet.”

“Not yet? What does that mean, not yet?”

“It means that until there’s a hearing, I’m still employed.”

Ginny jumped up. “A hearing? About what?”

“About my treatment of Frank Longbottom.”

“Fowler found out?”

“Apparently there’s been someone spying on me for some time,” Nigel grumbled bitterly.

“Son of a bitch!” she sniped. “Why would he do that to you?”

“Because he hates me. He’s been looking for a reason to sack me since I started, and now he’s getting his way. And the worst part is that Frank is actually responding positively to my treatment, and yet that seems to be why Fowler wants me out! I dared to use muggle medicine, and the muggle medicine worked!”

Ginny’s face hardened. All Nigel could feel was agonising guilt and powerlessness. “What will happen to him?” she asked.

“Nothing. They’ll take him off the drugs I’ve been giving him and put him back on that potion, and it’ll be back to fucking insanity for him!” Nigel snapped. “We were so close, Ginny. And now I won’t be allowed anywhere near him, and I’ll have absolutely no contact with him any more. Fowler will see to that.”

“What about Neville? He can make sure his father is getting good treatment.”

“I’ll tell you what’ll happen. Fowler will convince him that what I’ve been doing has been harmful to his father and that he should be grateful that his father is back on traditional treatment. And then Neville will hate me and accuse me of abuse or something.”

Ginny kissed his lips and pulled Nigel towards her. “I think you underestimate our Neville,” she said softly. “He’s a lot stronger than anyone thinks. He’ll take good care of his father.”

Her unexpected tenderness threw Nigel entirely, and before long, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her against his body—for love, for assurance, for security. Tears rolled down his face, but this time, Nigel didn’t try to hold them back.

“I’m so sorry, Ginny,” he said mournfully. “I’ve ruined everything! I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t ruin everything, baby,” she whispered. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I couldn’t even make through a single term without screwing it up!”

Ginny kissed him again, then stepped back, an indignant glare in her eyes. “This is not your fault, Nigel! This is the fault of a snippy, jealous little toad! You have more integrity and compassion in your pinky nail than he does in his entire body! I’m pissed off about this!” She broke away from his embrace and paced up and down the room. “I mean, who does he think he is, anyway? And putting his stupid ego over the welfare of patients? That’s irresponsible! He ought to be drummed out of St. Mungo's!”

Somehow, Ginny’s tirade against Fowler made it all seem a little better to Nigel. It wasn’t just that she agreed with his assessment of Fowler’s character and behaviour, but more importantly, that she was on his side in this and stood behind him. Gone was his urge to run and hide in shame and wait for her wrath to dispel itself. She was right, he thought—they really were a team. This was the first time as a married man that Nigel really understood deeply what that meant. As bad as he felt about the state of his career, he also felt a surge of passion for his wife, a frisson of devotion that carried him through the rest of his day.

Later that afternoon, Nigel apparated to Hogwarts to speak to Neville and tell him of the day’s developments. Ginny would be off to her next assignment in Romania, so he wouldn’t see her until he returned from Azkaban. He sat in the Great Hall with Neville and Snape, explaining the entire situation. Neville looked horror-struck, whereas Snape could not suppress his anger.

“Damn him!” he spat. “I knew the stupid fool would do something as moronic as this! I just didn’t anticipate that he would do this so early in his tenure as Chief. Plus, he’s cheap.”

“What does this mean for my dad?” Neville asked, trying to inject some practicality into the conversation.

“That’s what we need to discuss, Neville,” Nigel replied. “It’s up to you to be your father’s advocate now. We can’t just trust the abilities of the Healers because all they want to do is keep him in a stupor so they don’t have to chase him down corridors. You may even want to consult an attorney in this, someone who can navigate the system for you.”

“How muggle of you, Nigel,” Snape said icily. But before Nigel could snap back, Snape continued. “And how wise, I might add. Actually, Longbottom, I think your grandmother should also be involved in this. Have you told her of his progress?”

“I had a long talk with her last week, and I actually sent her an owl this morning before classes. I wanted to tell her about how he was last night, how alive and alert and attentive he was. I’ve never seen him like this ever in my whole life. It was like I had a real father for once.”

“You do have a real father,” Nigel said. “And I think you can have him like that again. But you’re going to have to fight for it.”

Neville sighed. “I wish I could have him here, so I could take care of him myself. I’d keep him on that stuff you gave him, Nigel. And I’d talk to him and even let the students talk to him.”

Snape smirked. “And what the hell, we’ve kept Sybil Trelawney here for ages. At least your father seems to make some sense.”

They laughed.

“I’m sorry about this, Nigel,” Neville said. “I’m sorry my father has gotten you into so much trouble.”

“He hasn’t. Your father is great, I mean, you should have seen him today! He was like a sage or something, spouting off all these little maxims and witticisms and everything. It was beautiful.”

“Does he know you’re in trouble?” Snape asked.

“You know, he and I have gotten pretty close these days, I mean, I’ve been treating him one-on-one for quite a while now. He expects me every night, and if I’m late, gods forbid! He’s not going to take this well. In fact, Neville, you might want to come for a visit tomorrow. Bring your gran.”

“I probably should,” Neville said.

“He’ll love it,” Nigel replied. “He’ll need it. He needs you now more than ever.”

* * * * *

Nigel arrived at Fowler’s office promptly at nine that night, ready for his trip to Azkaban. He had said good-bye to Ginny, to his parents, to Snape and Neville. All that was left was Frank Longbottom, though Nigel didn’t dare tell that to Fowler. But how could he not say something? It would be cruel, inhuman not to say good-bye and to give some half-believed assurances. Frank deserved at least that much.

Fowler’s office was illuminated by a single candle, burned halfway down. His quill was very old, and the bottle of ink was scratched and had a tiny crack in it. Fowler's office had taken on a somewhat run-down aspect so late at night, different from the pristine, picture-perfect condition it seemed to hold in daylight. Nigel thought back on Snape’s words with a suppressed smirk. For a full five minutes, though Nigel stood directly in front of the brown oak desk, Fowler did not look up, but continued to write and write with that mangy old quill. Nigel sighed lightly and waited, muttering mutinously in his head, using Occlumency the whole time. Finally, Fowler looked up.

“I see you made it, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” he said coldly.

“Yes, sir. Nine on the dot. You said you have some things to give me for the trip?” Nigel sounded equally cold and businesslike.

Fowler placed a large, black bag, not unlike a muggle doctor’s bag, on the desk with a loud clank. Nigel could hear little bottles of potions clinking together dangerously.

“This is the standard kit the Healer takes to Azkaban,” Fowler explained. “The method is very simple, so I’m sure you will be able to follow along.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Nigel said politely—a bit too politely.

“You will be greeted by Adolf Bergen promptly at ten. He is in charge of prisoner maintenance.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows. “Prisoner maintenance, sir?”

“That’s correct,” Fowler replied. He chose not to explain the term, to Nigel’s chagrin. “Do not be late. That will reflect poorly on me, and I won’t have you interfering with my work for any reason. Now then, Mr. Bergen will tell you where to go and which prisoners to see. You won’t see all of them because some are just too dangerous, even for the great Nigel Weasley-Chaucer.”

“You’re too kind, sir,” Nigel said silkily, trying his best to imitate his cousin Severus.

“Yes yes, now then, you will examine the prisoner—and by the way, a Dementor will be outside the cell at all times—and if the prisoner needs a potion, you give it to him.”

“Or her,” Nigel added. “Sir, what if the prisoner needs a potion I don’t have?”

“By law, they are only permitted certain potions. That keeps us all safe.”

“So if a prisoner is desperately ill with an illness we can’t treat, then he or she just remains ill?”

“Yes. Does this violate your high and mighty ideals?” Fowler asked mockingly.

“It does, in fact,” Nigel retorted.

“Then that is where you and the Ministry differ. You can’t control every aspect of the wizarding world, can you?”

“I never wanted to, sir.” Nigel suppressed his rage, which threatened to explode in violence against Fowler. Nigel imagined placing his hands around Fowler’s throat and squeezing…but enough. Nigel took a deep breath and got his emotions back under control. “Is that all, then, sir?”

“You will stay in the warden’s quarters in three-day intervals. Every fourth day you are permitted to return home. Furthermore, you will need to return here to replenish the kit.”

Nigel snatched up the bag—it was as heavy as it looked—and without a word, turned to leave.

“Not a good-bye, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer?” Fowler asked.

“No,” Nigel replied. He strode out of the office and stormed down the corridor, grumbling murderously as he went. “Stupid fucker!” he groused under his breath. “He’ll get what’s coming to him one day!”

Nigel had one more stop to make before he apparated to Azkaban—this was the one he dreaded the most. Like always, Frank Longbottom sat up in his bed, alert, though a little less so this night. Without the antidepressant, Frank had become more sluggish once again. On the other hand, his eyes were still somewhat bright and ready for a new challenge.

“Hi Frank,” Nigel whispered.

Frank threw his arms around Nigel’s neck and laughed. “Good things come to those who wait,” he babbled.

“True,” Nigel replied. Now, he gathered up his courage to deliver the bad news. “Frank, something’s come up, and I have to go away for a little while.”

Frank only stared blankly at him. “Time and tide waits for no man.”

“Yes, that’s very good, Frank. Let me explain something. Do you know Chief Fowler?”

“Double double toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!”

“Nigel took that to be a yes. “Anyway, he doesn’t believe that I’m helping you, and so he’s sent me away.”

Frank’s eyes grew troubled, and then grieved. “NO!!!” he bellowed.

“Frank!” Nigel hissed. “Shut it! Muffliato!” He looked around desperately, seeing that the other patients were now stirring. He feared that a Healer would come in and find him there, then run and tell Fowler.

“NO!!! HE CAN’T!!!”

“Stop it, Frank,” Nigel pleaded. “Listen to me, Frank, I’ve talked to Neville, and he’s going to make sure you’re okay.”

“NO!!!” Frank bellowed again. “That’s no good! Neville is far away! They’ll make me take that potion again! I don’t want it!”

“I know, Frank. I hear you,” Nigel said. “I don’t want this, either, but I don’t have a choice. At least not right now. Fowler wants me out of here, so I’ll have to do my best to be able to stay. But in the meantime, you need to keep your wits sharp, like they are right now!”

“NO POTION!” Frank sobbed pitifully. Nigel’s heart broke.

Nigel nodded. “You have rights, Frank. Just remember that. You have a right to receive treatment that works! Neville and your mother are going to fight for you, but you have to fight, too. Do you understand me?”

Frank stared Nigel in the eye, tears staining his face. “I understand.”

Out in the corridor, Nigel couldn’t contain his grief and frustration. He set the kit on the floor and sank down next to it, weeping bitterly. Frank’s sad face and plaintive wail haunted Nigel’s mind, making him weep all the more. Finally, after who knew how long, Nigel managed to pull himself together. He dried his face and blew his nose, then picked up the kit and made his way into the cool air outside. He checked his watch—five past ten.

“Oh shit!” Nigel exclaimed.

“Nice language, Chaucer,” a voice said behind him.

Nigel turned, only to come face to face with Healer Penn.

“Derek!” Nigel said, startled. “Sorry, I didn’t see you back there.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at Azkaban right now?”

“I’m late. I hope this Adolf Bergen isn’t a stickler for time.”

Penn shrugged. “You never know about those folks over at Azkaban. They sort of live in their own, horrible world.”

“Well wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Nigel.”

They shook hands and then, Nigel disapparated with a little pop.

* * * * *

By the time Nigel arrived at the battlements of Azkaban prison, it was at least ten past. He knew he was terribly late, and he could only hope that Adolf Bergen wouldn’t report this to Orric Fowler.

The last time Nigel had visited Azkaban, he was still in the Ministry, finishing up a case involving a gang of dark wizards bent on controlling the wizarding world—nearly all of those wizards were now incarcerated right there in Azkaban, though in the year and a half since then, three of them had died—one from disease and two by suicide. He thought he would never had to return there again.

Azkaban prison was a tall, massive stone tower with few windows and a seemingly permanent black cloud over it. The gates were rough and forbidding, cold and black. Nigel shuddered. He was admitted to the prison by a man who looked more like a troll than anything else, and led straight to the waiting Adolf Bergen. As Nigel walked through the barren corridors, he could feel the presence of the Dementors all over the place—he wanted to run, to escape the terrifying depression of Azkaban and find safety and warmth in Ginny’s arms.

But had work to do.

Adolf Bergen stood tall and bald, vastly muscular yet soft and pale. He put out a hand to Nigel.

“Welcome, Mr. Chaucer,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Bergen. I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to finish up some business at St. Mungo’s.”

“Not to worry. I was late myself, in fact. I had an issue with a prisoner this evening and we had to subdue him.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Adolf, please.”

“Adolf. Chief Fowler tells me that I am to examine the prisoners and tend to any health concerns they might have.”

“That is correct. It happens once every six months, though it really should happen more frequently. Most of our population is quite ill, in fact, results of the Dementors’ presence.”

“How ill? Psychiatric illness or physical?”

“Both. Most of our long-term residents are nearly psychotic—that’s what happens in this place when you’re here too long.”

“The Dementors?”

Adolf nodded glumly.

“How do you manage?” Nigel asked, wondering how he would fare for only a few days there.

“I use the Patronus charm nearly all the time. It’s the only thing that helps.”

“Do the prisoners use it?”

“I’m sure some do, but not everyone knows that charm. I hope you know it.”

Nigel nodded. “Well enough. I remember using it the last time I was here.”

In fact, as Nigel was led from dark cell to dark cell the next morning, he found the need to use it constantly as he went, and not just because of the Dementors. Every inch of the dank tower seemed to emanate a profound, thick pall of gloom that threatened to press them to the rough floor as they walked.

“Expecto patronum,” Nigel whispered. He shuddered.

Inside the first cell sat a small man in tattered robes. His grey hair hung limply, frazzled at the scalp, greasy on the ends. The man’s old face was nearly as grey as his hair. Nigel felt a wave of sympathy for him. He entered the stinking cell and sat next to the man, looking him up and down.

“I’m from St. Mungo's,” Nigel said. “I’d like to examine you.”

But like a viper, the man lashed out at him. “Get the fuck out of here, you little pisser!” he snapped viciously.

Nigel jumped back, and Adolf grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Next cell, Healer,” he said robotically. He shut the heavy cell door with a loud creak. “Look, Nigel, you gotta remember that these people are here because they did terrible things. They got here by their own choice.”

“I suppose,” Nigel replied. He was still shaking a little. “I think those Dementors are getting to me a bit.”

Adolf chuckled and led him onward. The next cell contained a woman who would have been beautiful had she not been greyed and dulled by so many years in Azkaban. She had long blonde hair, not unlike Narcissa Malfoy’s, yet it fell in soft curls down her back. And yet her green eyes had no light of life in them, no sign of the remotest joy. As he had in the previous cell, Nigel sat down next to her.

“I’m from St. Mungo's,” he said. “I’d like to examine you.”

To his shock, the woman suddenly stood up and disrobed completely, then stood up straight, with her arms stretched out. Nigel threw a troubled glance over at Adolf, who could only give him an affirmative nod whilst suppressing a snigger at the same time.

Nigel sighed. “Right then.” He started with her eyes—dull be clear. He checked the glands in her neck and under her arms for any swelling. None. He then looked at her skin tone, felt her forehead, asked her to stick out her tongue, which she did. All fine. Nigel then gave her a breast cancer exam and checked for any other irregularities on any other part of her body. As far as he could see and feel, she was fine.

“Do you have any pains or discomforts?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Alright then. You can get dressed,” Nigel said.

He picked up the kit and moved on to the next cell, and the next and the next. By the end of his first few hours there, Nigel had seen twenty prisoners, dispensed four potions and cleaned six different types of cuts and scrapes. A small handful of cells were off-limits to Nigel—the prisoners within were far too dangerous. To Nigel’s relief, one of those prisoners was Geoffrey Taylor, the man Nigel personally arrested when he was still in the Ministry. On the one hand, Taylor was relatively safe—he lost his powers to Nigel’s Demagus potion—but on the other hand, he had physically attacked anyone who dared enter his cell, nearly strangling Adolf to death a few months ago. These days, only the Dementors were permitted.

The very last cell for the day was located at the far end of the second storey of the tower. It had no windows other than a slit at the topmost part of the far wall. Nigel could make out the outline of a figure inside as he entered. The man had long, white hair—he didn’t stir an inch when the door opened, but instead, lay motionless on the cot in the corner. He had no blanket other than a threadbare, moth-eaten sheet which barely covered him. Nigel edged forth carefully, not wanting the man to lash out at him, as other prisoners had done so far.

But then, Nigel received a shock…he knew it was possible, but still…he hadn’t expected to see Lucius Malfoy.


	10. The Death of Lucius Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He’s gone,” Nigel said, his voice empty with sadness._
> 
> _“I wouldn’t mourn him much,” Adolf said casually. “He was a criminal and a murderer.”_
> 
> _“He was my friend’s father.” Nigel swept the stray strands out of Lucius’ face and pulled the blanket up, covering him completely. “I have to tell Draco.”_
> 
> _“You have to finish your duty here first.”_
> 
> _Nigel understood._

Nigel set down the kit quietly, so as not to disturb the slumbering figure of Draco’s father. He looked deathly ill, withered away to nearly skin and bones. Nigel knew that Draco would be horrified by the sight of his once majestic father, reduced to nothing by hard years in Azkaban. His breathing was laboured as he struggled for each new choking gasp of air. Nigel reached down to open his kit, but a cold hand stopped him.

“No,” Lucius croaked. “There’s no point.”

“I’m from St. Mungo’s. I can help you.”

“You cannot help me. No one can.”

“Mr. Malfoy, just let me examine you.”

“I already know what I have. I am ready to die.”

“But sir, think of your wife! Think of Draco. He’s going to be a father!”

Lucius cracked a faint attempt at a smile. “I suppose he knocked her up before they married.”

Nigel blushed. “Well actually, they did. But they are married now. You’re going to be a grandfather!”

That didn’t seem to make much of a difference to Nigel, from what he could see. And yet…

“Do they know the gender?” Lucius asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Draco said the baby might be a metamorphmagus.” He thought he could see Lucius grin, ever so slightly. Lucius’ eyes were dreamy and calm now, satisfied. Nigel sensed that Lucius had reached a seminal moment in his life, hearing that his own son would now be a father. There was an importance to that, and suddenly, Nigel wished that Draco could have delivered the news himself. But of course, that was impossible.

Nigel conjured a pillow and placed it under Lucius’ head, then conjured a thick blanket for him, tucking around his paper thin shoulders and under his chin.

“How’s that?” Nigel asked.

Lucius only gave a long, slow sigh and shut his eyes. He snuggled under the blanket and then he simply stopped moving. Concerned, Nigel placed a hand on him, then turned him on his back. Luicus’ face had turned a ghostly white, and his lips had become a light, deathly blue.

“He’s gone,” Nigel said, his voice empty with sadness.

“I wouldn’t mourn him much,” Adolf said casually. “He was a criminal and a murderer.”

“He was my friend’s father.” Nigel swept the stray strands out of Lucius’ face and pulled the blanket up, covering him completely. “I have to tell Draco.”

“You have to finish your duty here first.”

Nigel understood. Still, it seemed cruel to let something as monumental like this go for two whole days. Perhaps he could send and owl. Then again, maybe not. It would be awful to hear news like that in a note. News like this had to be given in person. Then again, Nigel had another solution. In his sleeping quarters that night, he quickly penned a note to Snape:

_Severus,  
I’m here at Azkaban (no, I wasn’t arrested—yet) doing some work for St. Mungo's. All is as well as can be expected, though my career hangs in the balance. But that’s another story. Something terrible has happened tonight, and you need to speak to Draco directly. One of the prisoners I tended to today was Lucius Malfoy. He was on his deathbed, and no sooner had I told him that he was going to be a grandfather, he died. _

_I’d tell Draco myself, but I’m not allowed to leave here. I’m sorry to throw something like this on you, but I couldn’t think of a better person to do this. Thanks so much, Severus. I’ll be back in a couple of days._

_Blessings,  
Nigel_

His heart felt heavy as he tied the note to the black owl’s leg and sent it off towards Hogwarts. That night, Nigel tossed and turned in bed, haunted by so many things—by Lucius’ dying face, by the old man who lunged at him so violently, by the Dementors, who presence threatened to drive Nigel into a dark depression. He began to feel somewhat desperate to break out of that place and find fresh air—he could feel his throat tighten in the oppressive atmosphere of the prison. He suddenly understood why prisoners were so loath to be sent to Azkaban. Nigel was sure that no one ever left Azkaban the same person—he was sure that he wouldn’t leave there the same person, either.

Other thoughts crowded his mind as he struggled to sleep. He thought about Ginny and how much she had changed since September 11, seeing all that death and destruction. It all seemed so surreal to him suddenly, as if he had walked through the last few months in a dream state, thinking and hoping that she would soon be her old, cheery self once more. In many respects, Ginny had improved—she smiled much more these days, and she attacked her work with her former eagerness. Most of the time, in fact, she was the same Ginny he had married a year and a half ago under the shady trees of Malfoy Manor. They still made love frequently, still saw friends and family, still went on little excursions when they had time, just like any other newly married couple.

But then there were those darker times, times when he would find Ginny sitting by the window, looking so lost and forsaken. Nigel didn’t need to use Legilimency on her to know exactly what was going on in her mind. He also knew that there was little he could do to purge those phantoms from her mind—that wasn’t for him to do anyway, not as a Healer or as a husband. On the brink of losing his job now, Nigel lay there, rebuking himself for his pride and recklessness. How could he be a support when he couldn’t keep his job?

The thought was powerful enough to drive Nigel from his bed. He paced and paced the little sleeping quarters Adolph had given him, feeling as if the Dementors were sucking the very life from his body and soul at every passing minute. Nigel stopped, trying to clear his head of the flurry of self-destructive thoughts, thoughts of abandonment…and murder.

“I’ve got to stop this,” he said to himself. He wished the Dementors would take a night off, but of course, that was ridiculous. 

Nigel couldn’t go back to sleep. He stared out the little window at the thrashing waves, wondering with hope and dread whether the owl had reached Snape yet. He knew how the scene would go. Snape would apparate to Malfoy Manor, where he would sit Draco down in the Library—that had the most comfortable chairs—and deliver the bad news. Draco would refuse to believe it at first, but Snape would insist that it was true. Then, Draco would rant and rave and rage, spewing out curses and venom and obscenities before he crumpled up and broke down emotionally. For years, Draco had insisted that he didn’t care that his father was in prison, but Nigel knew better that his friend was in serious denial. Draco talked tough, but the reality was, from what Nigel could see, that he was deeply attached to his father, after all this time and trial.

* * * * *

After three hellish days at Azkaban prison, Nigel was allowed to take a day off and return home. He jumped at the opportunity, and no sooner had he finished his breakfast with Adolf, Nigel gathered up his things, including the kit, and apparated back to London. First stop, his flat, to see if Ginny was home. But as he entered the building, he sensed that not all was well, though he couldn’t explain why. Inside the flat, Nigel found no one. Perhaps Ginny had gone to Malfoy Manor to sit with Draco and Pansy. That must be it. It made perfect sense.

Nigel set down the kit and went to the kitchen to make himself a snack. Everything in the flat was quiet—too quiet for comfort. He made a ham sandwich and took it to the settee, where he plopped down and switched on the television. Nothing much on. A rerun of some boring documentary on snapdragons, and a news special about the UK’s involvement in the ongoing strife in the Middle East. There were conflicting opinions about the PM’s decision to act in support of the US—some for, some against. Nigel had been so busy in the wizarding world that he had nearly forgotten about muggle politics. He switched to an old sitcom from the 1970’s. Anything to take his mind off of the horrors of Azkaban and the death of Lucius Malfoy. Nigel would mourn again for his friend’s loss, but for now, he needed a break.

Soon, his head grew drowsy, and before long, Nigel laid his head back and fell fast asleep. The only image in his dreams was the gaunt face of Lucius Malfoy, so much like Draco’s, yet so entirely its own construction. What was that pounding? Was it his heartbeat? Was it the Dementors on the attack? Nigel grunted a little, trying to shake the pounding noise out of his head, but it wouldn’t go away. When Nigel opened his eyes, he realised that the pounding noise was real. Someone was at the door.

Nigel struggled to his feet, turned off the telly and opened the door, only to have to jump aside as a frantic Ron Weasley barged straight past, heading towards the windows. Nigel watched in wonder as Ron quickly shut all the blinds in the flat, a look of terror on his face.

“What are you doing?” Nigel asked. “What’s going on?”

Ron placed both hands on Nigel’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Where were you three nights ago, Nigel?”

“What? Why?”

“Just tell me,” he insisted. “Where were you?”

“I went to St. Mungo's first, to speak to Chief Fowler, and then I went straight to Azkaban. I was on hospital business. What’s going on, Ron?”

“When you saw Chief Fowler, what did you talk about?”

Nigel shrugged. “Just about this trip. He gave me the Healer kit to take to Azkaban and then I left.”

“Can anyone verify that?” Ron asked.

“Verify it? What is going on, Ron? Tell me! Is it Ginny? Is she OK?”

“Ginny? It’s not about her. Haven’t you heard?”

Nigel shook his head. “Apparently not. What?”

“It’s Orric Fowler. He was found dead in his office.”

“Dead? Oh my gods!” Nigel exclaimed. “What happened?”

“He was…well, he was murdered. Strangled, in fact.”

“This is awful!” Nigel replied, aghast at the news. “So what’s being done, I mean, are you on the case?”

“Not exactly,” Ron admitted.

Nigel didn’t like that response. He eyed Ron cautiously. “Why did you want to know where I was three nights ago?”

Ron looked down. “Look Nigel, it’s not exactly like your dislike of Fowler was any big secret.”

“Hang on a minute!” Nigel shouted, appalled by the suggestion. “What are you saying, Ron? Do you suspect me?” Nigel could barely breathe.

“I don’t, mate, I mean, I know you wouldn’t do that!” Ron retorted.

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t!”

“But Law Enforcement has to look at everyone of interest, including you, Nigel.”

“So is that why you’re here, to interrogate me?” Nigel demanded.

“No!” Ron exclaimed. “I’m not even on the case! I wanted to be on it, but it’s a conflict of interest—brother-in-law and all.”

Nigel sat on the settee, unable to process this development. “But Ron, surely I’m not the only suspect.”

Ron sat down next to him. “You’re not, in fact, but…you are the prime suspect. As far as Law Enforcement knows, you’re the last person to see Fowler alive.”

“They don’t know that. How can they determine that?”

“Well,” Ron replied, “they determined the time of death to be between seven and ten at night. You saw him when?”

“Nine sharp,” Nigel said. “Like I said, I had to report to him to get the Healer kit for Azkaban.”

“Did you fight?”

“No.”

“But you did fight with him before?”

“We had a pretty big blowout that morning, in fact,” Nigel confessed reluctantly. “Ron! What’s going to happen to me? You don’t think they’ll arrest me, do you?”

“I have no idea, to be honest.”

Nigel groaned mournfully. “They know me. They know I would never do that. How could they know me so well and then turn around and think I would kill someone?”

“It’s not that they think you killed anyone, Nigel,” Ron said, almost apologetically. “Like I said, they’re investigating anyone of interest.”

Nigel nodded. His shoulders slumped and his head ached. “So what do I do? Will I be interviewed by someone?”

“My boss is handling that,” Ron replied. “This is considered a high-profile case, and not just because of Fowler. You were practically Minister of Magic not so long ago, and you’re really powerful and highly decorated with all sorts of honours and awards.”

“Who else is suspect?” Nigel asked.

“I don’t know that. Like I said, I’m not on the case. I’m here as your friend and as your brother-in-law, not as a Law Enforcement Officer.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

Ron shrugged. “It might not hurt. I’ll be honest with you, Nigel. This could get really bad for you…”

Nigel opened his mouth to interrupt, but Ron put up his hands to quiet him.

“They will likely look into every aspect of your life, so see if there’s any shred of a chance that you did it.”

“But if they find someone else, then they’ll leave me alone?” Nigel asked.

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“That’s not good enough!” Nigel snapped.

“That’s the best I can tell you.”

“Where is Ginny, anyway? She’s not working, is she?”

“She got back yesterday,” Ron said. “She was with Draco and Pansy for a little while, but I think she’s at St. Luke, with your parents right now.”

“Oh gods, Draco!” Nigel said. “I suppose you heard about his father.”

Ron nodded. “I wish I could say I was grieved,” he said sourly.

Nigel scowled. “It’s okay, mate. I know you and Draco don’t get on much.”

“Sad, though,” Ron admitted. “I mean, his dad was a real nasty piece of work, but it’s still sad to lose a parent, no matter what.”

Nigel sat back on the settee, picturing a grief-stricken Draco howling in despair that he would never see his father or reconcile with him ever again. His heart felt heavy and overwhelmed. “This is such a terrible day,” he uttered quietly. “For a lot of people.”

Ron nodded.

“What about Fowler?” Nigel asked. “What are the details about his funeral?”

“I don’t know, actually. I assume his family will take care of all that, after the autopsy.”

Nigel furrowed his brow. “I guess that’s true. A murder victim does have to be autopsied. You said it was strangling?”

“As far as they know. Of course, they need to figure out how that could actually happen to a powerful wizard like Fowler, I mean, he should have been able to apparate out of it or hex his attacker or something.”

Nigel pondered. “It’s a very muggle thing to do. You’d think a witch or wizard would have done it some other way.” He shook his head. “Poor sod.”

* * * * *

True to Ron’s word, Nigel found Ginny at the Chaucer home in St. Luke, just down the road a way from Hogwarts. As he approached the front door of his parents’ house, Nigel wondered just how to comport himself. Should he looked worried? Nonchalant? Eager get to the bottom of the case? But when his mother greeted him on the front walkway, tears flowing, the gravity of his situation overwhelmed him all over again, and he embraced her tightly, as if he were looking for security.

“Nigel!” she cried. “We’ve been so worried when you were accused and then you were gone to that hellish place and with all those criminals and then your father was contacting the Minister and Arthur and anyone who could give us an answer and there was just nothing we could do but wait and worry!”

“I’m fine, Mum,” Nigel said. “Ron told me all about what happened.”

Arm in arm, they entered the house, where Nigel found not just his father and Ginny, but Neville, Snape, Kingsley Shaklebolt, Alestor Moody, Arthur Weasley, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger—and to his astonishment, Draco and Pansy. They all looked at Nigel with a mixture of concern, horror and anxiety—what could Nigel do but say…

“Hi.”

Snape stood up, but Kingsley spoke first. “Nigel,” he said, “we’re doing everything in our power to clear up this mess. I’m communicating personally with the head of Magical Law Enforcement, and I am giving you my strongest support.”

That sounded good. “Thanks, Kingsley,” Nigel replied. “That means a lot to me. But who else is suspected?”

Kingsley and Arthur threw each other troubled looks. “As far as we know, Nigel,” Arthur replied, “no one.”

“No one? But Ron said I was one of many suspects!”

“They’ve made a short list of possibilities,” Kingsley said, “but that’s just a formality. Most of the attention of the inquiry will be placed on you and your motives.”

“But there must be plenty of people who have had run-ins with Fowler!” Nigel exclaimed. “What about other Healers at St. Mungo’s? What about anyone who may have been passed over for Chief of Staff? How about someone who is bitter over being sacked or ignored or something? How about the family of a patient who died in his care?”

“All I can really tell you is that they’re looking at every angle,” Kingsley said.

“Are you sure of that?” Nigel asked skeptically. “Come on, Shaklebolt, we both know how the Ministry can be sometimes.”

“You’ll just have to trust them,” Kingsley replied. Harry suppressed an audible grunt.

“I hope that’s enough,” Nigel mumbled. He cast his eyes over at Draco, looking sullen and more than a bit pale and sickly. Feeling awful now, Nigel stood up and moved over to his friend, sitting back down next to him. “Draco, I’m so sorry about your loss,” he said.

Draco nodded glumly. “Thanks, mate. And thanks for having Professor Snape tell me.”

“I would have personally, but there was no chance for me to leave, and I was afraid that if Severus didn’t tell you first, you’d hear it from some official who didn’t know you at all. I’m sorry it had to be that way.”

“It’s okay, really. I…” But then, Draco fell silent. “It’s just a bit strange, you know, that he’s really gone.”

Nigel placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “It was peaceful, Draco. Really. I told him about the baby. It made him really happy.”

Draco shut his eyes for a moment, as if to control some unruly force within him. His shoulders fell briefly, but quickly, he straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. “It’s all for the best, you know. The end of an era, really.”

“Are you okay?” Nigel asked.

Draco sighed, glancing over at Pansy. “I’ll be fine, Nigel, seriously.”

“Will there be a funeral?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

Draco shook his head. “I had an owl from the warden telling me what happened. That’s why I’m so glad that Nigel got the word to me ahead of time. All the note said was, more or less, _sorry, your father is dead. He’ll be buried in the prison graveyard and we’ll send you his stuff._ ”

“That’s it?” Hermione asked.

Draco nodded. “More or less.”

“Not very personal,” Harry observed.

“Death Eaters’ families don’t get proper condolences,” Draco said. “I don’t know, maybe they don’t deserve them.”

“It’s not your fault your father was a Death Eater,” Harry said.

“One last parting gift from dear old dad, I guess,” Draco replied bitterly. “Well I’ll tell you all one thing. My son will never be put through that, ever.”

Ginny clapped her hand to her mouth. “You found out the baby’s gender?” she asked excitedly.

Pansy ran her fingers through Draco’s hair and smiled pertly, not looking at anyone else in the little parlour. Harry and Nigel threw each other quizzical glances.

“We went in for the usual checkup,” Draco explained, “and that’s when the Healer told us the gender of the baby.”

“You must be so excited, Pansy,” Hermione said. “Any idea about names yet?”

Pansy continued to gaze intensely at Draco. “Draco hasn’t decided yet,” she said haughtily. “I hope for Abraxas, after his grandfather.”

Draco blushed lightly. “Well, like Pansy said, we haven’t decided yet.”

Nigel sat back and pondered the pattern on the wallpaper—it swirled around and flowered forth in pinks and greens and beiges—Nigel never liked that wallpaper, but now, with so much trouble and anguish in the air, it brought him a measure of comfort. For years, as long as Nigel could remember, that awful paper had hung in the parlour, and this was the very first time he really looked at it, studied it like a scholar, as if it brought him a level of stability that day. He would need that in the coming weeks—but he wondered, too.

How could this happen? Who really did kill Orric Fowler, and why? Nigel suspected that it would be up to him to get to the bottom of the situation, if not for the sake of unveiling the truth, than at least to keep himself out of Azkaban. He pictured Lucius Malfoy, dying all alone in the dark, tormented by Dementors, alienated from his only son, never to look upon his grandson’s face.

Now what?


	11. Tabloid Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _…Nigel threw down the paper._
> 
> _“Bitch!” he spat. “She’s got me looking like some sort of fucking lunatic!” He tore the paper into shreds while Ginny looked on forlornly._
> 
> _“This is getting out of control,” she said. “The other day when I went to Flourish and Blott’s, I could tell that people were looking at me strangely. Gods, Nigel, they wouldn’t fire me over this, would they?”_
> 
> _“You’ve got a good relationship with your editor, right?”_
> 
> _“Of course.”_
> 
> _“And he’s happy with your work?”_
> 
> _“Yeah, as far as I know. Nigel, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”_
> 
> _Nigel paced up and down the kitchen. “I have to worry. I’m suspended from St. Mungo's, and if things don’t go my way regarding Frank, then I’m screwed!”_
> 
> _Ginny put her arms around him, trying to calm him down. “Nigel, we just have to get through this one day at a time. Remember, we’re a team.” She kissed him and pulled him close. Like a child, Nigel let himself be held. Somehow, the warmth of her body brought him peace—for a little while, anyway._

**Fallen Hero**   
_Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, Murder Suspect or Scapegoat?_

_by Parvati Finnegan  
Staff Writer_

LONDON In the wake of the murder of St. Mungo's Chief of Staff, Orric Fowler, many troubling questions have come to the surface, especially now that the prime suspect is Nigel Weasley-Chaucer. Chaucer entered the wizarding world at age sixteen, and is the only person known to wizardkind to have become a wizard, reportedly after receiving a blood transfusion from two pureblooded wizards. He was immediately embraced by the wizarding community, and he played a key role in the downfall of Lord Voldemort.

Chaucer further distinguished himself as a unifier. Under his tenure as Head Boy at Hogwarts School, he managed to negotiate peace amongst the four houses, an amazing feat. In the Ministry of Magic, Chaucer worked closely with Minister Rufus Scrimgeour and with the Auror Office in capturing and incarcerating a gang of insurgent dark wizards. Afterward, Chaucer retired from the Ministry after only a year, and entered the Healing profession as an intern.

Sources at St. Mungo's say that Chaucer immediately clashed with Chief Fowler from the moment he began his second year as an intern. Other interns report constant arguments between the two. In fact, one unnamed source tells the _Prophet_ that “Chaucer was starting to get sort of paranoid, like Fowler was out to get him. As far as I could see, Fowler was just doing his job.” Another source pointed out one of the major disagreements between Chaucer and Fowler had to do with Auror Frank Longbottom, who was tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange twenty years ago. While Chaucer claims to have successfully brought Longbottom back to sanity, one source tells the _Prophet_ that he did so through untested and illegal muggle means. Healers at St. Mungo's are uncertain about the long-term effects these might have on Longbottom, but one anonymous Healer speculates that Longbottom may suffer further damage and trauma from these methods.

In the meantime, Chaucer has been named as the prime suspect by the Magical Law Enforcement Department. Veteran officer James Fowler leads the inquiry. He will hold a press conference once his team gathers and analyses more evidence in the case. Many people in the wizarding community are shocked by the allegations against Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, who has always had a positive and heroic reputation. We at the _Prophet_ feel confident that justice will prevail and that the true murderer of Chief Fowler will be apprehended and punished for his crime.

* * * * *

Ginny crumpled up the paper violently and hurled it aside, letting it knock the coffee pot off the kitchen counter with a smash. She sat at the breakfast table, fuming and grumbling mutinously under her breath. At the sound of the crashing coffee pot, Nigel came rushing into the kitchen. He stood looking with puzzlement at the mess on the floor, and reached out his hand to repair the pot.

“Leave it,” Ginny said sternly.

“It’s no problem,” Nigel said, again reaching out his hand.

“I said, leave it,” she seethed.

Nigel sighed. “OK, what is it?” he asked, miffed by her attitude.

Ginny pointed to the crumpled up newspaper, which now rested in the sink. “Take a look at that shit,” she snapped. “How Parvati could write such rubbish is astonishing to me. I thought she was a friend.”

Nigel unballed the paper and read the article, his expression growing darker and darker at each line. His hands shook a little, and suddenly, he found it hard to breathe. Folding the paper carefully, he set in down on the counter, then pointed again at the coffee pot.

“Reparo,” he said. In a flash, the shards of the coffee pot jumped back together.

Ginny scowled. “It always looks better after you fix it,” she said quietly. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“I dated Parvati once. I took her to Bill’s wedding.”

“And then you ran out on her.”

“It was work related! Aurors were killed!”

“But then you never did have a second date, did you?”

Nigel conjured a glass of orange juice, which he shared with Ginny. “I got back together with Lucy. Considering what happened there, Parvati should be grateful! It would be Parvati who got killed, not Lucy.”

“That’s not exactly funny, Nigel.”

“Who was trying to be funny?” Nigel replied. “This whole thing would be funny if it weren’t so real.” He opened the paper again and read the article over again with disgust. “I mean look at this. ‘Illegal means’? Long-term effects? Yeah, the long terms effects would have been positive if that Fowler hadn’t stuck his nose in where he didn’t know what he was doing!”

Ginny frowned. “Nigel, that’s the sort of talk you’re going to have to stop! That’s why people suspect you!”

Nigel looked into her eyes. “You don’t…suspect me, do you?”

Ginny kissed his lips and ran her fingers through his hair. “If I did, I’d divorce you in a heartbeat. I trust you, Nigel, and I love you. I know you wouldn’t ever do something like that. Look, the paper always writes trash like that. They probably told Parvati to make it sort of sensationalistic. That’s how they sell copies.” She kissed him again.

The next day, the paper ran another article, which made Nigel’s blood boil. Ginny had to hold him back from apparating straight to the offices of the _Daily Prophet_ :

**Power in the wrong hands? A lethal combination.**   
_Nigel Chaucer’s immense force: does he always use it for good?_

_by Parvati Finnegan  
Staff Writer_

He’s the most powerful wizard since Albus Dumbledore. Nigel Weasley-Chaucer wields tremendous magical power so potent that with a wave of his hand he can destroy a forest clearing.

According to Ministry Forester Arden Palmer, Chaucer single-handedly leveled an entire forest clearing in Wales in the space of a few minutes, and then left it as it was. His very first day as a full-time student at Hogwarts, he used an extremely powerful binding charm on the entire student body in order to force them to listen to what he had to say. Furthermore, when he worked in the Ministry, he used a secret charm to stop time within a limited space in order to tamper with evidence in the case of a murdered muggle woman.

Separately, each of these situations tell of a wizard with incredible powers, which he uses sometimes for good, and other times in a fit of strong emotion. Separately, none of this makes much of a difference, but combined, they tell a different tale. In fact, some muggle sources report that one night at a party, Chaucer lost emotional control and damaged a series of doors in a muggle home…

* * * * *

…Nigel threw down the paper.

“Bitch!” he spat. “She’s got me looking like some sort of fucking lunatic!” He tore the paper into shreds while Ginny looked on forlornly.

“This is getting out of control,” she said. “The other day when I went to Flourish and Blott’s, I could tell that people were looking at me strangely.”

“Oh gods,” Nigel groaned. “Ginny, I’m so sorry about this. Gods, I wish I could take you away from all this.” Suddenly, he had a terrible thought. “Ginny, could this interfere with your job at all?”

Ginny turned chalk white. “I…I don’t know…I…I wouldn’t think so. Gods, Nigel, they wouldn’t fire me over this, would they?”

“You’ve got a good relationship with your editor, right?”

“Of course.”

“And he’s happy with your work?”

“Yeah, as far as I know. Nigel, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Nigel paced up and down the kitchen. “I have to worry. I’m suspended from St. Mungo's, and if things don’t go my way regarding Frank, then I’m screwed!”

Ginny put her arms around him, trying to calm him down. “Nigel, we just have to get through this one day at a time. Remember, we’re a team.” She kissed him and pulled him close. Like a child, Nigel let himself be held. Somehow, the warmth of her body brought him peace—for a little while, anyway.

But that gentle feeling didn’t last for long. Soon enough, Ginny had to leave again, this time to Southern Italy to report on the Italian National Championship tournament—she’d be gone for a week at least, possibly two, leaving Nigel to wander around the empty apartment, alone with his new worries. They made love before she left, and she promised to apparate back when she could to spend some time with him.

In the meantime, Nigel began to plot out a strategy. One thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t solve this case on his own, and yet if he couldn’t find out who the real killer was, the Law Enforcement Office would likely pin the entire crime on him—after all, he was the obvious choice. He needed real help—professional help. He needed a private investigator. The only problem was that, even after a year in the Ministry, Nigel didn’t know any private investigators. He had heard of them in the muggle world and assumed that the wizarding world would have them, too.

Nigel decided to come out of his self-imposed hiding, and headed over to the Ministry to pay a visit to Arthur Weasley. He hoped that Arthur might know someone. It felt a bit strange going into the Ministry that day. Nigel hadn’t visited often since he left his post to start Healer training, so it should have been nice to see everyone again. But as he passed by the Welcome Witch and made his way to Arthur’s office, he felt dozens of pairs of unfriendly, critical eyes boring into him, scrutinizing every part of him, or so it felt to Nigel. He felt dirty, unwelcome, foreign, as if someone would take him by the shoulders and throw him out of the building. 

No one did. They only stared and whispered.

To Nigel’s surprise, Donna, the Minister’s assistant, was less than friendly to him, which was unusual for her. When Nigel was in the Ministry, Donna was more than a little flirtatious with him on any given day. Her coldness troubled him, but it didn’t necessarily surprise him, after what had been written about him in the paper these days.

“Hi, Donna,” Nigel said, more cheerily than he felt. “Is Arthur in?”

Donna looked cautiously at him. “What did you want to see Mr. Weasley about?”

Nigel chuckled mirthfully. “Mr. Weasley? You mean my father-in-law? Well, if you must know, it’s just a personal visit.”

Donna stood up and moved to the door of Arthur’s office, but Nigel followed her.

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she started, but Nigel reached the door ahead of her.

“I’ll just go on in,” he said, placing his hand on the door just before she could. “If that’s okay.”

Donna shrugged. “He is your father-in-law.”

Nigel found a very busy Arthur Weasley sitting behind his desk, almost hidden by a massive pile of parchments.

“What’s all this?” Nigel asked. “Working hard, I see.”

Arthur shook Nigel’s hand, then gave him a little hug. “How are you doing?” he asked gravely.

“Not well,” Nigel replied. “I’ve been better. You?”

“Doing alright.” He motioned for Nigel to sit at the smaller table at the side of the office.

“Just like old times,” Nigel said wistfully, looking around. “How’s Shaklebolt doing?”

“He has his own way of doing things. Different from you, but good. It’s not the same without you around here.”

“Well if Law Enforcement gets its way, I might never work anywhere again,” Nigel grumbled.

“Do you miss it here?” Arthur asked.

Nigel paused. Did he miss it? So much had happened that long year he worked at the Ministry. He was under so much stress and had more burdens on his young shoulders than he thought he could manage, most of the time. But…

“I guess in some ways I do,” he admitted. “I miss our talks.”

“We talk almost every day.”

“I miss working with you, to be honest. I remember when you were first my assistant, and I thought it was so strange, the whole arrangement. I thought I was too young to have that kind of authority.”

Arthur laughed. “And then you learned the truth.”

“That I’m an emotional basket-case?” Nigel quipped.

“That you are much stronger than you think you are, and I don’t mean your magic. You’re a natural leader, you know.”

Nigel rolled his eyes a little. “I know. But it’s nice to get away from that sometimes, too. I really loved being at St. Mungo's, Arthur. It was so exciting to work with patients on a personal basis and really watch them get better.”

“You mean Frank Longbottom.”

“I mean all of them.” Nigel sat back and sighed. “I really blew it, Arthur. I had always prided myself on being sort of diplomatic. I thought that after dealing with dark wizards, I could handle anything. I don’t know what to do any more, I mean, if I’m exonerated, I don’t know if St. Mungo's will take me back after I used muggle methods.”

Arthur frowned. “You mean when you’re exonerated, Nigel, not if.”

“I wish I could be as positive about it as you. This whole thing is messing me up. I just don’t get it! I know that we didn’t get along, but there has to be a reason why someone wanted him dead! I can’t be the only suspicious person out there!”

“What are you doing about it?” Arthur asked.

“I think I might need a private investigator,” Nigel said.

“I think you might also need a lawyer,” Arthur replied. “If they’re stupid enough to take this all the way to the Wizengamot, then you need representation.” He took out a quill and wrote down a name on the parchment. “This is Thomas McDowell, a friend of mine. We were at school together. He’s a top defence attorney, and I think he can really help you. The last thing you want is to get railroaded by the Ministry.”

“Should I apparate to him or send him an owl?”

“He has a muggle telephone, so you can actually ring him up first. Just give him my name.”

Nigel nodded gratefully. “Thanks for this, Arthur. I hope I won’t need his services. What about a detective. Do you know anyone?”

Arthur scratched his head and thought a moment. “I do seem to recall meeting someone a few years ago at a convention. No wait, that’s not right. Yes yes, now I remember. Years ago, before Lord Voldemort died, the Order had a meeting, and we talked about using spies and detectives to get more information. Yes, that’s it. And I remember that Severus mentioned that he knew someone.”

“Severus knows a detective?”

* * * * *

“Who told you I knew a detective?” Snape asked pointedly. He briskly stirred the bright blue potion in the cauldron, then set the wooden spoon aside.”

Nigel sat on a stool and enviously watched his cousin work. “You forgot the peppercorn,” he said.

“Know-it-all,” Snape grumbled. He dropped a single peppercorn into the potion, causing a little poof of pink smoke to emerge. The potion turned from bright blue to deep purple and suddenly became ice cold. A look of satisfaction traveled across Snape’s sallow features.

“See,” Nigel said lightly, “all you needed was a little direction.”

“Shut up, Chaucer.”

“So about this detective? Who is he?”

“You’re a persistent one, aren’t you? Well SHE is a former acquaintance of mine from school, as it happens. She worked in the Ministry for a short time, and then here for a year, and then she moved on to detective work in London.”

“She worked here?” Nigel asked, amazed. “When?”

Snape stiffened a bit. “Why do you wish to know?”

Nigel sensed he had struck a nerve with his cousin. “Forget it, Severus. I’m just nosy. I would like her name, though. If she’s good. Is she good? At what she does, I mean.”

“I have no idea of her reputation, but I imagine she is very good at what she does.” He wrote down her name on a parchment and handed it to Nigel.

“Allegra Brigantes,” Nigel read. “Cool name.”

Suddenly, Snape moved to the door and opened it. Nigel got the distinct impression that he was being kicked out of the office. He stood up, wondering if he should say something. Then again, this was Severus Snape he was dealing with, and Nigel knew very well that his cousin didn’t take well to intrusive and inappropriate questions. Therefore, Nigel decided to keep his mouth shut and ask his question later—if at all. He moved to the door, parchment in hand.

“Thanks for this, Severus,” he said. “I’ll contact her right away. Shall I use your name, as a reference, I mean?”

Snape paused, weighing the question carefully in his mind. Nigel waited, fascinated by his cousin’s sudden reserve. Almost imperceptibly, Snape nodded.

“Yes, I think that would be just fine,” he said rigidly.

Finally, things were in motion for Nigel. Law Enforcement might be out to get him, but he wasn’t going to take that sitting down. He had the name of an attorney, and he would visit this detective as soon as he could get an appointment. As Nigel arrived back in London, he felt slightly better, and he was able to spend the rest of the day in relative peace. He had a good dinner in his flat that night, and after he talked to Ginny on the telephone, he slept soundly in his warm bed.

And then he read the newspaper the next morning.

**Fruit of the poison tree**   
_Chaucer’s past unveiled_

_by Parvati Finnegan  
Staff Writer_

In June 1997, Professor Albus Dumbledore was betrayed and murdered by one of his own colleagues and fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix—Severus Snape. Snape, 41, was amazingly reemployed at Hogwarts School in 2000 by Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. These facts are controversial enough on their own, but there is another element that makes them all the more troubling.

It is no secret in the wizarding world that Snape is a cousin of Chaucer’s. Furthermore, it is well known that Chaucer is a notorious favourite of McGonagall and of Minister Rufus Scrimgeour. Many witches and wizards have come to question whether Chaucer’s influence and power in our community is a product of his dark connections and origins, which have led him to exploit the goodness of unsuspecting and respectable people. It is hard to know for certain, though it is a concept not out of the realm of possibility.

In the meantime, sources at the Law Enforcement tell the _Prophet_ that they are looking into every shred of Chaucer’s background and history, starting with his family connections, his early life, his entry into the wizarding world, and any other relevant information that might help them to determine Chaucer’s guilt or innocence. “No stone shall be left unturned,” the source says…

* * * * *

He couldn’t read any more—he felt too ill, too angry. As Nigel set the paper carefully on the breakfast table, he thought he might sick up his breakfast. Undoubtedly they would dig up whatever they could about Severus, his parents, his friends, and anyone else in Nigel’s life. He felt like virus all of a sudden, lethal to anyone who crossed his path. He felt compelled to warn them, to tell his parents to be careful of what they put in the dustbins at night and what they might say too loudly at the dinner table or in the front garden.

To his surprise, no one from Law Enforcement came to talk to him—not yet anyway. Nigel reckoned they would want to speak to him straight away, but it was only after he’d been home a full five days before anyone came by. Ginny was not yet home from her latest Quidditch junket, leaving Nigel to handle the situation alone. The officer, a Lieutenant Boris Borisov, was rather tall, burly and imposing. Nigel admitted him to the flat, using Occlumency to close his mind against him. At the same time, Nigel made good use of Legilimency, trying to discern what Borisov wanted.

Borisov was an Occlumens. Damn.

“I wondered when you people would be around to speak to me,” Nigel said, trying to sound casual. He put his trembling hands behind his back.

Borisov looked intently at Nigel with his piercing blue eyes. He was very muscular, Nigel noticed, not someone to be messed with. “Officer Fowler wants to set up an interview with you today.”

“Fine,” Nigel said plainly. “How about now? According to the paper, your office wants to rummage through my whole life, so let’s get it over with right now.”

“Tomorrow will suffice, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer.”

“Aren’t you afraid I might flee by tomorrow?” Nigel asked tauntingly.

“No. We’re tracking you by magic, as it happens. Today, however, we will be searching your flat.” Borisov pulled out a parchment from the pocket of his blue robes. “We have a search warrant.”

The next thing Nigel knew, a whole team of blue-clad officers entered the open door, with strange silver instruments and foe glasses, ready to make their search. This was nearly too much for Nigel.

“Look, if you just tell me what you want…” he started. But it was no use. The whole team began a thorough search of the entire flat, and all Nigel could do was stand there stupidly and let them. After all, they had a warrant, signed personally by Rufus Scrimgeour. Nigel felt worse than betrayed. He had half a mind to apparate to the Ministry and give Scrimgeour a piece of his mind, but he held himself back, knowing how bad that could go for him.

As the officers searched through every drawer and cabinet, performed special spells and enchantments to reveal hidden items, Nigel felt a sort of black cloud of doom forming over him, as if an unwelcome spirit had taken over his life, invaded his space, violated every last shred of dignity he possessed.

He feared what would come next.


	12. The Lawyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pierce motioned for one of the officers—Ron Weasley, as it happened, to come forth with the little phial of clear fluid…Veritaserum. Ron’s expression was a mixture of dread and nausea as he handed the phial to Nigel. He tried to give a friendly glance to Nigel, but his nerves got the better of him. Nigel understood his brother-in-law’s trepidation. He took the phial from Ron’s hands, feeling its hardness and sureness between his fingers. The phial was smooth to the touch, a little cold. Or was it just that his hands were cold? Nigel couldn’t be sure. What he did know was that whatever happened and whatever he said in these next several minutes could determine the rest of his life._

Nothing.

That’s what the Law Enforcement squad found. Nothing. Bupkis. Zero evidence.

That didn’t stop Officer Borisov from pressing onward with the case.

“Officer Fowler will expect you tomorrow at the Ministry at ten, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” he said. Very cold, very businesslike.

“What did you find here?” Nigel asked.

“We’ll discuss that in our interview tomorrow.” Borisov turned to leave. “See you at ten.”

Before Nigel had a chance to reply, the whole squad disapparated. His heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. The team had turned his entire flat nearly upside down, looking in every crevice and under every last sock and box of cereal, looking for gods knew what. Looking around, Nigel could only mourn at the mess that lay before him, left by the team for him to clear up himself. He could only imagine what Ginny would say if she saw the state of things. Nigel knew he had to telephone her right away—she had a right to know that he was being summoned to the Law Enforcement office to be interrogated.

Ginny was less than thrilled. In fact, she was downright furious. Nigel had never heard such language from his wife before.

“…and if they think they can get away with treating you like this,” she ranted on, sounding very much like her mother at her most fiery, “then they’ve got another thing coming!”

“I’m calling an attorney today, Ginny,” Nigel said, trying to sound reassuring. “Your father recommended him. And I’m going to hire a private detective to look into the case, too. She’s a friend of Severus’.”

“I’m coming home right now,” Ginny said.

“Look, Ginny, that’s not necessary,” Nigel said.

“Of course it’s necessary!” she shouted into the phone. “If you think I’m going to let you go down there all alone, totally unsupported, then you are quite mistaken!”

“Ginny…”

“No arguments, Nigel! I’ll be home in an hour! We’ll visit this attorney of dad’s together.”

Nigel knew there was no arguing with her, and in fact, he appreciated her concern and her dedication to him. Somewhere in the tangle of everything going on, Nigel knew that he had unswerving allies, people like Ginny and Severus and Draco who would always stand up for him. He felt weak in the knees all of a sudden, though he couldn’t let that prevent him from making that first contact with the lawyer, Thomas McDowell.

He got the secretary. Nigel told her who he was, and she put him straight through to McDowell personally.

“I’ve read about you in the paper, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” McDowell said. His voice was very deep, resonant and rich. “Sounds like you’re in quite a bit of trouble.”

“You were recommended to me by my father-in-law, Arthur Weasley. He said you were really good.”

“I do my best to be effective,” he replied.

“I know this is very short notice Mr. McDowell, but could I come to see you today?”

Hesitation. “Well, my schedule is quite busy today.”

“It’s jus that I’m facing an interrogation tomorrow. I need some advice on how to comport myself. I’ve conducted interrogations in the past, when I was in the Ministry, but I’ve never been interrogated myself.”

More hesitation. “Well, perhaps I could fit you in at the very end of the day.”

Nigel sighed with relief. “Thank you so much, sir. I really appreciate this.”

After he hung up the phone, Nigel faced a massive cleanup of his flat. He hated the thought that Ginny would return to a mess like this—things were upsetting already, and the last thing he needed was another tirade, even though it wouldn’t be directed at him.

Nigel suddenly, briefly wished he were a muggle again.

It took actual physical labour to clean up the mess in the flat—a simple spell wouldn’t be enough. Their things were scattered higgledy-piggledy in every direction of the flat, as if the Law Enforcement squad deliberately tried to make as big a mess as possible. Nigel muttered wrathfully as he refilled cabinets and hung up clothes, party with magic and partly by hand. In the midst of all the activity, he never heard Ginny apparate home, and its was only when he heard footsteps in the corridor that he realised she was back.

“What the hell is this?” she exclaimed, bursting into the room. She looked all over, her expression increasingly furious the more she saw.

Nigel stood there in the middle of the bedroom, holding a limp sock in his left hand. “They searched the flat.”

Ginny suddenly tore through the flat as if on a search of her own, trying to determine what, if anything, was taken or moved or meddled with. “This is insane,” she growled. “They know damn well you didn’t do this, and they’re treating you like a damn criminal!”

Nigel followed her into the living room, but when he tried to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, she turned on him.

“You had to disobey him, Nigel!” she shouted. “You had to go and have your own way, didn’t you?”

“Now just one damn minute, Ginny!” Nigel started. “Don’t you dare put this on me!”

“If you had just minded your own business…”

“Oh wait, so you think that Fowler’s death had to do with me? Is that it? You’re blaming me, Ginny!”

“I’m not!”

“You are! You don’t even know why he was killed, and nor do I! But here you are, making it look like the murder had to do with me!”

“Nigel, I…”

“I thought I could count on you, Ginny,” Nigel said, almost in tears.

But then, Ginny started to cry bitterly. “You can, Nigel, really,” she said through her own tears. “I don’t suspect you, honey, really. I swear it.” She put her arms around him and pulled him close.  
“I hate this!” Nigel seethed. “I hate what this is doing to us!” He dried her tears and kissed her cheeks.

“Remember, we’re a team,” Ginny said, sniffling. She hiccupped. “I’m sorry, Nigel. I’m sorry I said those things, it’s just that I was frustrated and angry with Law Enforcement and…”

Nigel shushed her with a kiss. He pressed his lips to hers, softly first, then harder, more desperately, as if this intimacy would save him from total destruction. He ran his fingers through her hair, down her back, over her shoulders, her breasts, wanting only to forget about the tremendous weight pressing down on him so dangerously and oppressively.

Of course, that was ridiculous, and before he could go too far, Ginny pulled herself away. “Don’t you think we need to consider what to do?” she suggested.

Nigel sighed. Ginny was right, of course. He had to pull himself together and ready himself for what he faced tomorrow. “I have an appointment with that lawyer. He’s fitting me in at six.”

* * * * *

The Law Offices of McDowell and McDowell was much nicer than Nigel expected. For some reason, he expected a wizard lawyer’s office to be dark and small, not glossy and posh and modern. Everything seemed to be made of glass, or of some smooth surface, coloured in whites and creams and powder blues. The whole place was restful, which Nigel reasoned was a bit of smart marketing, given that McDowell likely had many anxiety-ridden clients such as himself. He and Ginny gave their names to the black-haired receptionist.

“Wizard, right?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, wizard,” Nigel replied. For the first time, he was grateful that she didn’t seem to recognise him.

Thomas McDowell was one of the biggest men Nigel had ever seen, short of Hagrid, of course. No one was bigger than Hagrid, though McDowell came close. He towered over Nigel at at least six-foot-six, and he was as wide as he was tall. Even his booming voice was big.

“Come in, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley-Chaucer,” he said grandly. “I’ve been expecting you.”

The office was beautiful, intimate and personal, adorned with pictures of McDowell’s family and friends, and with all his various degrees and honours and certificates, including the Order of Merlin, Third Class. Nigel and Ginny sat in sleek blue chairs in front of the glass-topped desk. He noticed that the desk had no drawers. For some reason, that struck him as very strange.

“Forgive my receptionist if she doesn’t seem to know you,” McDowell said. “She’s a muggle. I practice both muggle and wizard law, so she always asks the clients if she’s not told ahead of time. I must have assumed she’d heard of you, so I neglected to tell her you’re a wizard.”

“It’s no problem,” Nigel said. “So you know all about the stories in the paper. You said on the phone you’d read about my situation?”

“I have. I have also read all the gossip in the paper. Now listen, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, there’s not much I can do to control the press, but we shouldn’t worry much about that. We need to worry about what Law Enforcement can give to the Wizengamot as far as any credible evidence is concerned.”

“They searched the flat today,” Nigel said. “They wouldn’t tell me what they took, and they wouldn’t say what they wanted.”

McDowell frowned. “That doesn’t sound quite right. Did they show you the warrant?”

“They flashed it at me.”

“Did they specify what they wanted?”

“No. They just tore the place apart.”

McDowell frowned again. “That, my friend, was an illegal search. They’re supposed to tell you what they want. You may be a suspect in this, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, but you do have rights. They had no right to just rummage through your place and hope to unearth something suspicious.” He took out a parchment and scribbled something on it, then motioned for the huge brown owl on its perch in the corner to come to the desk. McDowell tied the note to the owl’s leg and sent it off.

“What was that for?” Ginny asked.

“I sent a note to the Ministry that we will be challenging the legality of the search in court tomorrow,” McDowell replied. “When is your interview tomorrow?”

“Ten. Officer James Fowler is supposed to interrogate me.”

McDowell frowned once again, and again, he scribbled another note on a parchment, called over a tan owl and sent it off to the Ministry with the new note.

“That one’s to get the murder victim’s relative off the case. Bastards.”

Nigel hated to bring up the next subject, but… “Listen, Mr. McDowell, about your fee,” Nigel started.

“Before you say any more, let me tell you what I want. You are a great hero to me. You brought down some of the worst dark wizards that our kind have seen in a very long time. I feel incredibly indebted to you, and I want to represent you free of charge.”

Nigel blanched. “Sir, that’s not necessary.”

“No, but as for me, I consider it a great honour.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Nigel murmured. “Thank you.”

* * * * *

They arrived thirty minutes early to the Ministry, Nigel dressed in his best robes, Ginny looking cross and indignant. They met McDowell in the lobby. He looked as cool as ever, and as imposing. He carried a smooth, brown briefcase and wore a muggle suit.

“I’m arguing in muggle court after this, so I had to dress the part,” he explained.

“Are you half and half or something?” Nigel asked.

“Muggle-born. Like you. Went to Hogwarts, then to the LSE, then read law at Oxford, then trained as a wizard attorney.”

“That’s quite a background,” Nigel said as they all walked together towards the lifts. “Are there similarities between muggle and wizard laws?”

“Many,” McDowell replied, pushing the call button for the lift. “But wizard law is a lot stricter, less forgiving than muggle law. They take a lot more liberties with civil rights, which keeps me very busy, defending people who have been railroaded by the Ministry. I was the one who got Stan Shunpike out of jail, for example.”

“I remember that,” Ginny said. “Thank the gods he had someone like you.”

They got out of the lift and made their way towards the Law Enforcement offices—as he passed through the corridor, Nigel felt increasingly like he might faint or throw up or have a breakdown. McDowell’s words had stuck in his mind, that the Ministry was far less forgiving in their dealings with criminals. He saw enough of that himself in his visit to Azkaban, and suddenly, Nigel wondered how many were in that hellish place simply because they didn’t have someone like Thomas McDowell to go to court for them.

In the Law Enforcement office, which bustled with frenetic energy, McDowell had Nigel and Ginny stand to one side whilst he spoke to the desk sergeant.

“My client, Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, is here to make a formal statement,” McDowell said, “but I must insist that before he says a word, that James Fowler be removed from this inquiry.”

The desk sergeant frowned. “That’s not up to me, Mr. McDowell,” he replied gruffly.

“I realise that. This is why I insist on seeing your commanding officer, Louella Pierce. I’d hate to have to take this before the Wizengamot.”

The desk sergeant gave a suppressed snarl at both McDowell and at Nigel, then shuffled off to find the commanding officer. The witch who returned with him looked harassed and irritated.

“Tom,” she said, thrusting her hand out at McDowell. They shook hands like old friends.

“Louella,” he replied politely. “We have a situation here, which I believe must be discussed in your office. I have my client and his wife with me, ready to cooperate.”

Louella Pierce’s office was large enough, but rather shabby and dusty. The walls were covered with notices and pictures of criminals wanted for everything from robbery to tampering with muggle artifacts to murder. When she moved the chair from behind her crowded old desk, it creaked loudly. Louella herself hardly looked like the Commanding Officer of the Law Enforcement squad—unlike McDowell, she was slight, petite, very pretty and blonde. From what Nigel could tell, she couldn’t have been much older than forty-five. And yet, here she was, at the very head of her department. Nigel found that impressive. He could only hope that she would have a shred of sympathy in her.

“I got your owl last night, Tom,” she said.

“We insist that Fowler be removed from this case before I agree to allow my client to make his statement. It is a clear conflict of interest.”

“James Fowler is an excellent officer, and very professional.”

“That is not the point. Another officer, Ronald Weasley, has been prevented from being on the case because he is my client’s brother-in-law. To my mind, that is good judgement, as it is clearly a conflict of interest.”

“Officer Weasley is relatively inexperienced, Tom,” Pierce replied.

“Officer Weasley was instrumental in taking down Lord Voldemort,” Nigel interjected angrily. “I hardly call that inexperienced.”

“Nigel, please,” McDowell said. “He does, however, have a point. What it comes down to is this. My client will not talk to you as long as Fowler is on the case, and if you subpoena him, I will challenge it in court, and they will throw him off the case. Mr. Weasley-Chaucer will, however, talk to you, Louella.”

Pierce sat back in her creaky chair, her fingers pressed together in deep thought. A careful use of Legilimency told Nigel that she was leaning towards McDowell’s side of things. In fact, he thought he saw doubt in her mind.

She stood up. “Excuse me a moment.”

During that brief minute that Pierce was out of the office, McDowell turned to Nigel. “You must allow me to speak for you. Did they caution you?”

“No, not yet. I hope they don’t. And sorry about my outburst. I do that sometimes.”

McDowell furrowed his brow. “Well we can’t have any more of that. I don’t want you cocking up your own defence. Just let me do my job.”

When Louella re-entered the office, she was accompanied by Officer Borisov. Nigel whispered to McDowell, who raised his eyebrows.

“This is the man who was in charge of the search yesterday?” McDowell asked.

“That is correct,” Pierce replied.

“That is, the illegal search of my client’s flat?” McDowell added.

“The legal search, yes,” Borisov growled.

“You did not inform my client of what you were searching for,” McDowell said.

“It was a general search,” Borisov replied.

“General searches violate our bylaws, Officer,” McDowell retorted. “Surely you know that, or did you think you could abuse your power and my client’s vulnerability in order to get what you wanted?”

Nigel couldn’t suppress a quick grin. Ginny elbowed him in the ribs.

“You are familiar with the term _fruit of the poison tree_ , are you not?” McDowell asked. “Any evidence that is a product of your illegal search is not admissible at the Wizengamot. I’m sure you know that, do you not, Officer Borisov?”

“Well it doesn’t matter anyway, because we didn’t find anything we could use,” Borisov admitted. Pierce glared at him.

“Officer Borisov is now heading this inquiry,” Pierce said. “I had a brief word with James, and he agrees that you have made a good point.”

“Look, I want to get this over with, and fast,” Nigel said. “I want to tell my side of the story, but I have one important condition.”

Pierce frowned a bit. “We have already reassigned the case, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. What else do you want?”

“I want to be given Veritaserum,” Nigel said.

McDowell glared at him. “Nigel, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I used it when I conducted interrogations, and it works just fine. It cuts through the proverbial rubbish,” Nigel replied. “That is my condition. That is, Tom, unless you think I’m guilty.”

“Of course I don’t! That’s not the point. You are undoubtedly aware that Veritaserum is extremely powerful. You can admit to things you had no intention of discussing.”

“Only if the interrogators abuse the situation,” Nigel reminded him. “I’m sure that you won’t, right?”

Ginny gripped his arm. “Nigel, I don’t like this,” she said. “You’ll give them far more than they’ll ask for. That’s what the potion does!”

“I have nothing to hide,” Nigel replied. “And therefore, I have nothing to fear, other than an overzealous inquiry bent on convicting the most convenient person around—ME.”

“Fine, then,” Pierce said. “I have no problem accommodating you, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. But we also have a condition.”

“And what is that?” McDowell replied.

“That he be questioned by a panel, not just by Officer Borisov and myself.”

Nigel flushed. “You mean, a hearing? In court?”

“Not officially in court, no,” Pierce said.

Nigel looked quizzically at McDowell. “Why a panel?” McDowell asked.

“Mr. Weasley-Chaucer is a prominent public figure in the wizarding world. He has been accused of a terrible crime against another prominent public figure in the wizarding world. Many in our department wish to ask him questions.”

“And I will be at his side to let him know when he’s being duped,” McDowell answered sternly.

* * * * *

Nigel, Ginny and McDowell entered the small hearing room looking about at everyone on the panel—the panel was larger than Nigel expected, with at least ten inquisitors sitting in a long row, ready to fire away at him. Nigel stood up straight and tall, shoulders squared, a look of feigned confidence on his handsome features. Inside, however, his stomach was turning cartwheels. He could feel his arms and legs shaking.

“Your wife will need to wait outside,” Pierce said, taking her seat at the centre of the panel. Borisov sat next to her.

Nigel sat at a plain table, next to McDowell. The ceiling looked higher than he remembered, darker and more ominous than he could recall from his times in there as a Ministry official. There was a musty smell to the place, stale and old and depressing. Nigel could only feel grateful that he wasn’t in chains—and that he hadn’t been cautioned yet. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Pierce motioned for one of the officers—Ron Weasley, as it happened, to come forth with the little phial of clear fluid…Veritaserum. Ron’s expression was a mixture of dread and nausea as he handed the phial to Nigel. He tried to give a friendly glance to Nigel, but his nerves got the better of him. Nigel understood his brother-in-law’s trepidation. He took the phial from Ron’s hands, feeling its hardness and sureness between his fingers. The phial was smooth to the touch, a little cold. Or was it just that his hands were cold? Nigel couldn’t be sure. What he did know was that whatever happened and whatever he said in these next several minutes could determine the rest of his life.

“Hang on a moment, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Borisov interrupted. “Do not drink that potion!”

Nigel raised the bottle to his lips, but didn’t drink. What could go wrong now?


	13. The Night Nigel Spent in Jail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ginny rushed forward to embrace Nigel, but balked at the sight of the officers now flanking her pale husband. She looked back and forth between Nigel and McDowell, entirely flummoxed._
> 
> _“What is this?” she asked, her voice tremulous._
> 
> _“I’ve been arrested, Ginny,” Nigel told her, trying his best to sound stable and strong for her. “I’m under caution. I have to go to…”_
> 
> _“NO!!!” she shrieked. “NO, THEY CAN’T DO THIS!!!”_

**A.N.: Allegra Brigantes is an OC from my fic “The Potions Master” (M).**

 

Another delay, more questions, more nerves for Nigel. What could it be now? He was so tired of all this. All he wanted was to get back to work—back to his patients. He wanted answers and closure and some concrete answer for what really did happen to Orric Fowler.

“Yes, Officer Borisov?” Pierce asked impatiently. “What is it?”

“In our search of Mr. Weasley-Chaucer’s flat, we found a half-empty phial of his Shield Potion.”

All the officers looked sharply at Nigel. It was something he hadn’t thought of, that the presence of his Shield Potion could cast doubt on his honesty. Nigel feared what would happen next. His palms felt sweaty and cold.

“I think we established that the search was illegal,” McDowell reminded them.

“This has nothing to do with that,” Borisov shot back defencively. “We all know that Chaucer’s Shield Potion, the one he invented, makes the drinker resistant to any curses or spells or potions, as far as anyone knows. Didn’t you take it before you drank the Demagus Potion, the night you arrested Geoffrey Taylor and his gang?”

They had him on that. It was true.

“You used it to protect your family against Taylor and other dark wizards, did you not?” Borisov asked Nigel.

“That’s true. And it worked. It saved a lot of lives.”

“It even works against Unforgiveables, doesn’t it?” Borisov asked.

“Well, I don’t know about the Killing Curse—you can’t exactly experiment on that one—but yeah, it works on pretty much everything.”

“So it stands to reason that it would work against Veritaserum?” 

“I suppose,” Nigel replied. “I haven’t taken the Shield Potion in ages, not since I was in the Ministry.”

“It protected you against your own Demagus Potion, didn’t it?” Borisov asked. “You still have your powers, do you not? It strips the wizard of his powers, but not you.”

“You’re right, Officer,” Nigel replied. “I do have my powers for that very reason. But I haven’t taken any in ages. I haven’t needed to.”

But now, Pierce took interest in this little exchange. “Actually, we don’t know that.”

“But I’ve just been working in St. Mungo's. There hasn’t been a situation where I’ve needed to protect myself against dark magic.”

“But you were the one who made the condition about Veritaserum, correct?” Pierce asked.

“Well yes, but…”

“Then there’s really only one solution,” she replied. “What is the duration of the potion?”

“A small amount can last for half a day.” The moment Nigel said it, he wished he hadn’t. He had a terrible feeling about this.

“Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, there is no way we can guarantee that you will not make and take any more Shield Potion. Our only solution is to put you somewhere neutral.”

“Neutral?” Nigel asked. He blanched, imagining himself languishing in Azkaban.

“Neutral?” McDowell asked.

“Not…” Nigel started.

“No, not Azkaban,” Pierce said. She stood up to face him. “You deserve better than that. After all, you are a hero. But we do need to be sure that you are not in a place where you have access to that potion or to potions ingredients. Therefore, Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, you are under arrest for the murder of Orric Fowler. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the Wizengamot. You have a right to an attorney, which I see you already have. Are these clear?”

“Yes,” Nigel replied faintly. He thought he might be sick.

“Good. We are placing you in holding for three days…”

Nigel couldn’t help himself. “Three days? Are you mad?” he roared.

“Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, you will watch yourself!” Pierce roared back.

“Surely there is some other way,” McDowell said emphatically.

“I’m sorry, Tom, but there really is not. We have to be objectively certain that his body is completely free of any Shield Potion.” Pierce was absolutely adamant in this, and Nigel quickly saw that there was no other way. He couldn’t be so sure that Ginny would understand this, nor his parents, nor his cousin.

Nigel hung his head dejectedly as two officers approached to take him to the holding cell. He stepped back abruptly, alarmed by their swift presence.

“May I tell my wife?” he asked, more than a little frantic. He knew this would be an ugly scene.

“I’ll tell her,” McDowell said. “Trust me, Nigel, it’s better this way.”

“But I want to say good bye to her! She’ll go mad if someone else tells her this!”

McDowell nodded. “May I let Mrs. Weasley-Chaucer into this room?” he asked Pierce.

“Of course,” she replied.

“And Tom, call that investigator,” Nigel said. “The one I told you about.”

“Brigantes? Got it.” 

With that, McDowell disappeared into the hallway for a moment, re-entering the room with a very worried Ginny in tow. Ginny rushed forward to embrace Nigel, but balked at the sight of the officers now flanking her pale husband. She looked back and forth between Nigel and McDowell, entirely flummoxed.

“What is this?” she asked, her voice tremulous.

“I’ve been arrested, Ginny,” Nigel told her, trying his best to sound stable and strong for her. “I’m under caution. I have to go to…”

“NO!!!” she shrieked. “NO, THEY CAN’T DO THIS!!!” She rounded on Ron, who stood to the side, watching in horror. “How could you let this happen, Ron?”

“Ginny, it’s not his fault!” Nigel snapped at her. “He’s not on the case! It’s the fault of a lot of other people, but not Ron’s!”

“But this is criminal! You’re a national hero! You battled dark wizards for them, and this is how they treat you?” She burst into angry tears. Nigel couldn’t blame her. He felt terrible for her.

“Ginny, I’ve told Tom here to contact that detective, Miss Brigantes. I want you to stay on it and keep track of what she finds out, alright?”

“But where are they taking you? Not to Azkaban!”

“Not to Azkaban. Just to a holding cell here at the Ministry. No Dementors.” Nigel could hardly believe the words he was saying to his wife. He was supposed to be the one sending people to jail, not going there as a prisoner. His heart broke as he looked at Ginny’s anguished face. “It’s just for three days, Ginny, and then hopefully I’ll be back.”

Frustrated and furious, Ginny didn’t know what to say. “Can I visit him?” she asked Pierce.

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Weasley-Chaucer. He has to be in solitary—we can’t take a risk that you or anyone else will slip him any Shield Potion.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Ginny exclaimed. “He doesn’t even have any!”

“We found some in your flat,” Borisov told her.

“What? Nigel, is this true? You still have some?”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s just been in the cabinet, unused.”

“Oh my gods, Nigel, why didn’t you throw it away?”

“Ginny, what’s the matter with you? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Just then, McDowell intervened. “Listen, you two, we have to get on with this. Nigel is going to be just fine, perfectly safe. He won’t be attacked by Dementors or by other prisoners, and when he returns home in a few days, we’ll be able to move ahead with this case. The less we all worry, the better we’ll all be.”

Ginny sniffled and tried to compose herself. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said quietly to Nigel. “I’m just really scared.” She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Be safe, OK?”

Nigel nodded, then turned to face the officers. “Let’s get this over with.”

* * * * *

The holding cell at the Ministry of Magic was probably the smallest room Nigel had ever been in. Ten feet square, bare white walls, a small window and a heavy metal door enchanted by protective spells so that no escape was possible. All Nigel had in the room was a hard bench, which was supposed to serve as a cot, and a metal toilet. There was a slot in the door through which he would receive his meals. He was not allowed to use his wand, and he knew better than to use wandless magic in there. That was it.

“At least it’s better than Azkaban,” Nigel mumbled to himself the moment the door was shut behind him.

The whole process of being booked and searched and processed was beyond humiliating. Nigel was fingerprinted and photographed, then subjected to a strip search conducted by three officers, who seemed to find the whole thing humourous. But he wasn’t allowed to put his own clothes back on—Nigel was given a dull grey jumpsuit to wear, and a pair of slippers on his feet. Inside the cell, he was given one blanket, no pillow. Nothing else.

He couldn’t help but feel like a criminal just then, though Nigel knew he wasn’t. He felt conspicuous and dirty sitting in that cell, looking about at the blank, sterile walls. He wanted to go home desperately, crawl into his warm bed with Ginny and just be with her, take in the gentle scent of her strawberry shampoo, feel the creamy lightness of her skin next to his. Nigel pined for her. The cell suddenly felt stuffy and hot.

Nigel sat on the bench and sighed morosely. These next three days would be long and far too silent. A feeling of new horror overwhelmed him as he sat and pondered every new possibility. Many things dogged his mind—who killed Fowler? Who was the spy in the ward? How was Frank? Was Neville taking care of things? What must his parents be thinking right now? What would the newspaper report about this? How could Parvati write such trash about him? Who was this Detective Brigantes, anyway? Would she be able to help? Why would Snape know a private detective?

The time passed all too slowly, with no answers and all that empty space.

* * * * *

At the end of the third day, the door opened. This time, the same two officers entered, carrying a pair of handcuffs.

“Are those necessary?” Nigel asked, offended by the implication.

“I’m afraid so,” one of the officers said, a bit shamefacedly. “We need to take you back to the hearing room.”

“The same one? Will there be another panel?” Nigel asked. He worried. This was starting to look like a tribunal or something, and he was starting to doubt that he would be treated with fairness, Veritaserum or not.

“Same room, same people. Let’s go.”

Again, the officers flanked Nigel as they led him back to the room where he would finally be able to make his statement. Nigel saw people poking their heads out of their offices to watch the spectacle of this solemn procession—his face felt hot with humiliation as he watched people gawking and whispering and even chuckling as he passed. _So much for loyalty_ , he thought bitterly.

Back before the panel, Nigel noticed that everyone seemed to look that much more irritated and impatient. Clearly he had caused them trouble by insisting on taking Veritaserum, and yet Nigel knew that the only way he could possibly end this quickly was to do just that. He wondered what the newspaper had to say about it. Ginny was there, sitting in the back row of seats in the room, right next to a beautiful blonde woman whom he presumed to be Miss Brigantes. Nigel stopped before he approached the panel, wanting to talk to McDowell once again. They quickly sat and spoke together quietly in the back of the room before the interview began.

“How are you faring?” McDowell asked.

“Fine. A little tired, but I’m OK,” Nigel replied. He turned to the blonde woman. “You must be…”

“Allegra Brigantes,” she said thrusting out her hand to shake Nigel’s. She retracted it when she saw him in handcuffs. “I have a lot to talk to you about, but we can do this after you make your statement.”

“Yeah, sure,” Nigel replied, now curious. Her eyes were intense, penetrating, knowing, and he wondered even more how well Snape knew her—he’d told Nigel she worked at Hogwarts for a year. Could they have had more than a collegial relationship? What else didn’t he know about his cousin? “If they let me go today, you’re more than welcome to come to our flat.”

“Sounds good,” she replied.

McDowell placed a protective hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “Very good, Allegra. Well, Nigel, shall we face them?”

Nigel took a deep breath, knowing that what he said now would determine the rest of his life.

“Let’s do this,” he said resolutely. He gave Ginny a quick kiss and watched her and Allegra leave the room, escorted by the officers who brought Nigel from holding. Nigel then approached the panel of officers, once again led by Louella Pierce. His knees trembled a little, but Nigel stood tall and strong.

Ron, clad in his uniform, stood to the side whilst Officer Borisov approached with the phial of Veritaserum, ready to go. Nigel took it from his hand, and this time, drank down the contents. He had never taken Veritaserum before—it felt strange, almost liberating, as if he had nothing to fear in the entire world. Of course, Nigel had plenty to fear, but as the potion took its effect in his body and mind, all his worries simply slipped away. He was ready to face them.

Pierce began. “Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, explain your whereabouts on the night of the murder.”

“I was told by Chief Fowler to come to his office at nine o’clock to receive instructions and pick up the Healer kit to take with me to Azkaban.”

“Why did he want you to come at night?” Pierce asked. “That sounds a bit odd.”

Nigel shrugged. “I really don’t know, ma’am. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Why did you go to Azkaban?” Borisov asked.

“Every six months, a Healer or intern from St. Mungo's goes on a medical mission to Azkaban to check the health of the prisoners and to administer any necessary potions or treatments. Since Chief Fowler had suspended me from the patients at the hospital, he ordered me to go on this mission. So, I went.”

“What did you do that night?” Pierce asked.

“I arrived on time, at nine, and spoke briefly with Chief Fowler in his office. He gave me instructions and who to meet, and then I took the kit and left his office.”

“What did you talk about with him?” she asked.

Nigel wanted to lie about it, but the power of the Veritaserum brought the truth straight out of him.

“We talked about the details of the mission to Azkaban. He told me who to report to and basically what I was supposed to do.”

“And?” Borisov asked.

“And he accused me of wanting to control the wizarding world, and I told him I didn’t. He tried to make me out as some sort of egotist and power-monger, and I just didn’t want to have that argument with him again, so I just ended it. I took the kit and left.”

“And that’s it?” Pierce asked. “You went straight to Azkaban after that?”

Nigel sighed. “No. I stopped on the fourth floor first, to see Frank Longbottom. I wanted to say good-bye to him, since I’d be gone for several days. He had grown rather dependent on my nightly visits, and I didn’t want him to be afraid or upset.”

“Was this the man you were forbidden to treat?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you treat him after you were told not to?” Pierce asked.

“He showed signs of hope, only the potions the Healers were giving him were not helping him,” Nigel replied. “I did some research on post-traumatic stress disorder, and…”

“On what?” Borisov asked skeptically.

“It’s a psychological disorder that happens to a person after they’ve been through a traumatic event, like what a lot of witches and wizards experienced after September 11, or after the war with the Death Eaters. It’s not just something that happens to muggles. Frank Longbottom and his wife were put through untold horror when they were tortured, and it’s only now, twenty years later, that Frank is just starting to work his way out of what was done to him. I was just trying to give him a chance to make progress.”

“And Chief Fowler didn’t see it that way?” Pierce noted.

“No, ma’am. He objected to my using muggle means. He thought I was being irresponsible, but I wasn’t. It was just his own anti-muggle prejudice that blinded him. He didn’t care that my methods were working.”

Borisov frowned. “But that wasn’t the basis of your argument, was it? Our sources say otherwise.”

“I’d love to know who your sources are,” Nigel replied angrily. “I have a right to know who’s throwing around accusations.”

Borisov raised an eyebrow. “Well it seems to be common knowledge that you and Chief Fowler hated each other. Are you disagreeing with that?”

“I don’t hate anyone,” Nigel protested. “I was angry with him, yeah! He was trying to get rid of me no matter what! I never stood a chance against him!”

“Which is why you killed him, right?” Borisov growled.

“I did not kill Orric Fowler!” Nigel shouted back.

Silence. He’d said it, and under Veritaserum.

“I don’t believe you,” Borisov finally said.

“What?” McDowell exclaimed. “What does he need to do? He just drank Veritaserum! What more do you want from him?”

“We have a credible witness that says otherwise.”

“The hell with your witness,” Nigel snapped. “You just heard me! I’m under Veritaserum! Even if I wanted to lie, I can’t! You jailed me to make sure of that!”

Borisov glared at him. “You have other powers, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. We all know that your powers are considerably strong, nearly as strong as Albus Dumbledore’s.”

“You think Dumbledore could have outwitted Veritaserum?” Nigel asked bitterly.

“I think he could have done a great many things,” Borisov replied coolly. “And you are a cunning piece of work who…”

“That’s enough, Officer Borisov,” Pierce stated flatly. Borisov sneered at Nigel and sat back in his chair defiantly.

McDowell frowned. “And who is this witness that you all seem to have?”

“I believe Mr. Weasley-Chaucer knows him quite well. His name is Henry Prewett,” Pierce replied. “Another intern at St. Mungo’s.”

“Wh…what?” Nigel murmured. He couldn’t believe it. Henry? His friend and ally? What was this? “I don’t understand. Why would he say something like that when he knows it’s not true? He can’t really believe that I did this! I’m telling you, all of you, I did not commit this murder! I don’t care what Henry says! He’s either lying or deluded!”

“He knows quite a lot about what you’ve been up to these last several weeks, as it happens,” Pierce said.

It suddenly made sense to him. Henry had to be the spy who had been tipping off Fowler. But how? Nigel couldn’t remember ever seeing Henry around during his visits with Frank. Could it be Polyjuice Potion? Was he a Metamorphmagus? Was he an Animagus? Did he have an Invisibility Cloak? Nigel felt weak in the knees all of a sudden. His stomach burned. Henry was his friend, a real confidante. If he told Law Enforcement that he suspected Nigel of this crime, then what else did he tell them? And what did he tell Fowler about all those times that Nigel complained? Nigel didn’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken. Henry was someone that Nigel truly liked, found genuine and funny and compassionate—they had talked about so many things, commiserated about Fowler so many times. Was it all a joke? A setup? Nigel wondered. Was Henry paid off? Or was it worse? Did he really think Nigel was a menace to the patients? And if so, how did he get that idea? Who the hell did he think he was, Nigel thought angrily.

“After you left Frank Longbottom,” Pierce asked, “what did you do then?”

Still in shock, Nigel could barely speak. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You heard me, what did you do after you left Frank Longbottom?” she repeated.

“Uh, I uh, I sort of lost it for a little while,” Nigel admitted.

“Lost it?” Ron interjected, unable to keep quiet. He turned beet red and deferred to the panel. “Sorry.”

“Well if you all must know, I was very upset by the whole situation. I broke down emotionally,” Nigel said. “I was just outside the ward, in the corridor. And no, no one saw me, though it would surprise me if someone heard me.”

“Did anyone see you at any other point after that?” Pierce asked.

“Derek Penn saw me. Just outside St. Mungo’s. He was leaving for the night.”

“Did you speak?” Pierce asked.

“Just briefly. Then I apparated to Azkaban, just as I was supposed to. I was late, but then again, so was the officer, Adolf Bergen. He was very understanding.”

“What did you and Healer Penn talk about?” Borisov asked.

Nigel had to think a moment. That was several days ago, and he had been through so many dramatic events and wild emotions that he could barely remember. But then it came to him. “We spoke for just a minute. Basically, he just wished me luck, and then he went his way and I went mine. I went straight to Azkaban right after we spoke.”

“And has he been supportive of you as an intern?” Pierce wanted to know.

“He’s been great, in fact. It was under his supervision that I worked with Frank Longbottom. He’s a real friend.” But then Nigel thought with a pang of sadness about Henry. He thought Henry was a real friend, too. Nigel wasn’t sure what to believe any more.

As he walked out of the Ministry that day, temporarily free, Nigel had a feeling that this wasn’t over, in spite of his statement under Veritaserum. This unexpected blow left Nigel reeling and horror-struck, and even Ginny’s supportive anger at the news brought him no solace. Outside on the pavement, Nigel stood and looked upward toward the late morning sky. The clouds hung thick and foreboding overhead, mirroring Nigel’s glum state of mind. The muggle traffic whizzed by at a rapid clip, all but ignorant of Nigel’s plight. Though he was flanked by his wife, his lawyer, his brother-in-law and a private detective, Nigel couldn’t have felt more alone in the world as he did at that moment.

“Let’s go home,” Ginny said softly, taking Nigel by the arm. “I think I’ve got a new bottle of firewhiskey in the pantry.”


	14. Allegra's Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Snape’s mood that night was…odd, even for him. Nigel noticed that his eyes were a bit red, tired, filled with strong emotion. This was far from the usual inscrutable cousin that Nigel could expect. Snape sat in a dark corner of his office, smoking a pipe that smelled sweet and pungent. The whole office was quiet and still, as if s terrible turmoil had just occurred and swept violently away, leaving nothing but a void in its wake. Nigel frowned._
> 
> _“Severus?” he said tremulously._
> 
> _Snape didn’t reply, but continued to smoke his pipe._
> 
> _“Severus?” Nigel repeated. “Are you okay?”_
> 
> _Again, no reply. Nigel turned to light a candle._
> 
> _“Don’t,” Snape said flatly._

The mood in the Weasley-Chaucer flat that afternoon was dismal and dark. No one smiled or laughed or even attempted to lighten the mood. All that was on Nigel’s mind was Henry Prewett. He wanted to run back to the Ministry and demand that they take back what they said about Henry. Henry wasn’t the type to spy. He was too cynical of the whole system, so clever and skeptical to want to spy on anyone. And he disliked Fowler just as much as Nigel did—even more, Nigel thought. After all, Fowler placed Nigel with his team of interns because Fowler thought they were the lowest of the whole group and he wanted to put Nigel at a disadvantage. Fowler placed Henry in their ranks because he considered Henry to be substandard. Henry’s resentment of Fowler had become almost legendary since then.

So why not arrest Henry for murder? Why not put him in jail and subject him to suspicion and scrutiny and strip searches? It didn’t seem fair. Nigel couldn’t suppress his fury and envy.

Ginny poured out glasses of firewhiskey for everyone, including herself, then sat back on the settee, right next to Nigel. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. Nigel covered her hand with his and gave her a gentle squeeze.

“So what have you learned so far?” he asked Allegra.

Allegra downed her firewhiskey and poured herself a little more. “Quite a lot, as it happened,” she replied. “First of all, I found out a little about that reporter at the _Prophet_.”

“Parvati?” Ginny asked bitterly.

“She and I had a bit of a talk the other day, and she’s furious about the articles the paper has printed about you, Nigel.”

“Oh please!” Ginny exclaimed. “She writes all that trash and then is furious that they printed it? Bitch!”

“And she’s sure gone out of her way to fix it, hasn’t she?” Nigel grumbled.

“She did write those articles, but they apparently were heavily edited,” Allegra replied. “She showed me her original copy, which were far more objective.”

“Then why doesn’t she do something about it? Report them to the Wizengamot or something?” Nigel spat. “Coward!”

“And aren’t they afraid of the lawsuit?” Ginny added. “You will sue, won’t you?”

“I’ll demand a retraction,” McDowell confirmed. “Of course, Mrs. Finnegan will lose her job.”

“But that’s not fair,” Ron exclaimed. “I mean, if Parvati’s being railroaded, then it’s not her fault!”

“The paper isn’t likely to be so compassionate towards her,” Allegra said. “And there are other publications she can work for.”

Ron smirked. “Like the _Quibbler_?”

“Like _Witch Weekly_ or _Wizarding World News Week_ , or even _The Portal_.”

“I love that magazine,” Ginny said. “It’s the only one that gives an accurate reporting of the Ministry. And they’re very sympathetic to you, Nigel.”

Nigel nodded.

“Let Parvati take care of herself, Nigel,” Allegra said. “She chose to put her name to those articles and chose not to quit over them. She has to take the consequences of her choice.”

“Harsh, but true,” McDowell said.

“Maybe Nigel should be interviewed by _The Portal_ ,” Ron suggested. “You know, have an ally in the media.”

“It’s best for Nigel to keep his mouth shut and to let me and Miss Brigantes do our jobs,” McDowell said.

“I also spoke to a few people at St. Mungo’s,” Allegra said.

“What about Henry Prewett?” Nigel asked angrily. “Did you speak to him?”

“No. He quit a week ago,” she replied. “Actually, that’s what the hospital says. In reality, no one really knows where he is.”

“What does that mean?” Ginny asked.

“Maybe he ran off in shame, for ratting out a friend,” Ron suggested.

“Maybe,” Nigel mused. “Or maybe he was thrown out. Or maybe he really did quit and is just looking for another job.”

“Could be,” Allegra said. “I’ll do what I can to track him down. I’m sure that you and Tom would like to speak to him. In the meantime, I also followed up on Frank Longbottom.”

“How is he?” Nigel asked frantically. “Is he okay?”

“Well, his son is staying on top of the situation, but so far, it looks like the Healers have convinced him that the traditional treatment is best.”

“So Healer Penn hasn’t done anything about it?” Nigel asked, irritated. “He was the one who oversaw what I was doing. I hoped he would keep up our progress.”

“Did you speak to Neville?” Ginny asked.

“No, not personally. He’s at Hogwarts, as you know.”

“And you haven’t gone out there?” Ginny said.

Allegra blushed. “No, not yet.”

Nigel sensed that Ginny had touched a sore spot with her, so he rushed to change the subject. “So what else did you find out at St. Mungo's?” he asked.

“I spoke with a woman, Polly Marks.”

“She’s on my team of interns!” Nigel exclaimed. “Was she the one who told you about Henry?”

“No, that was another man, Hugh Smedley. He said he noticed that Prewett was acting a little strangely, always slipping away a few minutes before the end of the shift. Hugh followed him for two or three days, and found out that Prewett was using some sort of invisibility device so you wouldn’t see him.”

“Does he know what type?” Nigel asked.

“No. It’s not a potion, and it wasn’t a cloak.”

“There is a spell,” Ginny said. “I remember Harry told me about one that Mad Eye Moody used on him once. Maybe Henry used that one.”

“But did Hugh indicate why Henry was doing this?” Nigel asked.

“He has no idea.”

“What about Polly?” Nigel asked. “She might know. Maybe Henry confided in her.” He had his doubts about that, but it was worth saying.

“That’s something we’ll have to get from Prewett himself,” Allegra said.

Nigel groaned. “Yeah. If we can ever find him.”

“This is what it comes down to,” she said matter-of-factly. Nigel found himself extremely impressed by her commanding presence. “We have three potential suspects in this crime, possibly more. Clearly, Henry Prewett, Derek Penn and Frank Longbottom all had motives to kill Orric Fowler…”

“Frank!” Ron laughed. “But he’s barking mad, isn’t he? Can’t even use the toilet by himself!”

“That’s not true!” Nigel snapped. “But Frank? Impossible!”

“He was an Auror,” Allegra said. “And he certainly knew how to wield a wand in violence.”

“You said he was getting better,” Ginny pointed out.

“But not that better, I mean, Ron actually has a point,” Nigel confessed. “I don’t think he could focus his mind long enough to do any serious damage to anyone. Strangulation takes a long time, several minutes of intense concentration. Frank isn’t capable of that right now, in spite of his progress.”

“What about the others?” Ginny asked. “What about Henry? Maybe that’s why he’s disappeared.”

“Henry is family,” Nigel said.

“Yeah, from the dark side of the family,” Ron reminded him. “Lots of dark wizards in Henry’s line.”

“But Henry wasn’t one!” Nigel shouted.

“But maybe Fowler didn’t know that,” Ron mused. “Maybe Fowler found out about Henry’s dark connections and threatened to sack him for it. Maybe Henry freaked out and killed him.”

“But Henry was spying for him,” Nigel said.

“Yeah, but maybe he sort of took your side in things. Maybe that pissed off Fowler and they had a row and Fowler threatened him or something,” Ron reasoned.

“It’s possible,” Allegra said. “It’s one of many good theories, and the more theories we have, the better it is for Nigel.”

“But if that means railroading a friend just to get exonerated…” Nigel began. He felt horrible all over again.

“No one’s railroading anyone,” Allegra reassured him. “We want the truth, not excuses. And we won’t rest until the truth is discovered.”

* * * * *

He was so tempted. It was nearly impossible to resist.

All of a sudden, Hugh Smedley had become a wealth of information, and yet, Nigel knew that trying to contact Hugh personally could get Hugh in too much trouble. In fact, in the days since his suspension from St. Mungo’s, Nigel had consciously not kept in touch with anyone on his team, nor with any of the other interns. He hadn’t even spoken with Penn, at least not since the night of the murder. He wondered.

Nigel remembered Hugh from his days at Hogwarts. During Nigel’s one year as a full-time student, Hugh was someone who could never quite blend into the background. Had he been in Hufflepuff and not Slytherin, things might have been quite different for Hugh. But as an above average student in Slytherin house, Hugh managed unwittingly to distinguish himself as someone not quite detestable, but not quite palatable. He was different, quirky in his own way, not secretive or corrupt or anything like that. In fact, for a Slytherin, Hugh Smedley was downright normal, an average boy. That’s what made him so interesting to Nigel. He sometimes wondered why someone like Hugh was in Slytherin at all. Then again, Nigel wondered why he was in Slytherin himself. Draco or Zabini or Goyle in Slytherin made sense, and even Nigel in Slytherin made a certain amount of sense—Snape had pointed out to him long ago that there was a distinct purpose that Nigel was in Slytherin, namely to bring peace to the Hogwarts houses. This was a task that no Gryffindor, no matter how noble, could do because Slytherins would only listen to another in their house. Hugh’s purpose, on the other hand, remained a mystery.

Perhaps this would be Hugh’s time to prove himself after all.

What if Nigel did go back to St. Mungo's to talk to Hugh? Would he be chucked out? Arrested? Welcomed back like a hero? Clapped on the back for a job well done? Just how many people at St. Mungo's hated Orric Fowler? Nigel knew he couldn’t be the only one. He thought more and more about what Allegra said, about the other so-called suspects. Nigel felt sure that Penn had issues with Fowler—Penn was next in line for Chief of Staff. And what of the other senior Healers who were also in line for the post? They had worked hard, slaved away with little rest or recognition, and yet it was the office boy, the desk jockey who got the job. That had to have pissed off a lot of people around the hospital.

Time passed slowly…too slowly for Nigel. Every day for nearly two weeks he walked to St. Mungo's, stood at the corner, staring stupidly at the place, itching to enter and find out more from Hugh. And every day, he realised how much trouble that would cause him, and then he would turn around and walk away. Most days he ended up at the Leaky Cauldron, where he found fellowship and a little sympathy from some of the regular patrons—mostly elderly witches and wizards who had seen too much of the Ministry’s meddling in people’s lives. They would pat his hand and call him sweetie and buy him butterbeer or ale.

“Don’t let those ruddy Ministry bastards ruin your life, dear,” one old witch said. Nigel could see that she had one tooth missing, that made her sound a little like she was whistling through the gap.

Her husband chuckled. “That’s right, son. Don’t let them fuck with you. Just remind them who got rid of all those dark wizards, laddie! Maybe then they won’t be so quick to throw your arse in Azkaban!”

Nigel’s parents were equally supportive, though understandably worried.

“You look thin,” Mr. Chaucer noted one evening.

“You look stressed,” Mrs. Chaucer said. She frowned.

“I am stressed,” Nigel said. “But at least things are moving a little.” He finished his soup and took a piece of brown bread. “Thanks for having me over tonight. The flat is a bit empty with Ginny gone this week.”

“Where is she this time?” Mr. Chaucer asked.

“South Africa. Say, Dad, I think you’d get a kick out of Quidditch. I should take you to a match some day.”

“Say, honey,” Mrs. Chaucer said, “when are you and Ginny going to start a family?”

“What?” Nigel replied, a bit flummoxed by the suggestion at that particular moment. “I…I don’t know, I mean, I guess we’re just letting nature take its course.”

“Is this really the time to ask him that?” Mr. Chaucer asked.

“Well why not?”

“Because our son is accused of a crime he didn’t commit!”

“He can still think of the future!”

Nigel sensed danger. He hated it when his parents bickered like that, especially over him. He had seen them do it when he returned home after his accident years ago, arguing over whether he should return to school right away—Nigel remembered cringing over that fight. “Look, Mum, just let me think of one thing at a time, OK? The thought of having a child right now isn’t even in my mind!”

“But things change over nine months,” she said.

Nigel sighed. “I know, Mum. If this whole thing is over in nine months. I hope it’s over in nine weeks! Nine days!”

As Nigel left his parents’ home that night, he started to feel even worse. Not only was he a murder suspect, but apparently a failure as a husband, too. Rather than apparating back to his flat where he would be alone again, Nigel took a turn at the end of town and headed towards Hogwarts. Perhaps a little time with his cousin in the Potions classroom would give him a little confidence. For as long has he had known Severus Snape, Nigel always felt a sense of strength in his presence. Snape had this uncanny way of exacting the very best from Nigel, usually in a rain of sarcasm and personal barbs against Nigel’s character or his intelligence. As much as that had rattled him in the past, Nigel could never hold it against his cousin. He knew deep down that Snape loved him just as much as Nigel loved him back. The bond they shared had given both men a strong sense of connection to each other—a bond of deep love and regard that neither could deny, as hard as they tried sometimes.

Again, Nigel stood before the gates of Hogwarts, awaiting admission, once again filled with troubling thoughts. On most days, he could count on his cousin giving him words of wisdom that could carry him through the most difficult of times. Truly, they had been through the very worst together, and Nigel could always rely on his cousin as a source of strength and stability. Snape had been his guiding force from the very first day Nigel entered into the wizarding world, and since then, their connection and bond had grown only deeper and more abiding, in spite of Snape’s moodiness and acerbic wit. Nigel could use a bit of that just now, some stinging barb to break the monotonous gloom that enshrouded his heart.

But Snape’s mood that night was…odd, even for him. Nigel noticed that his eyes were a bit red, tired, filled with strong emotion. This was far from the usual inscrutable cousin that Nigel could expect. Snape sat in a dark corner of his office, smoking a pipe that smelled sweet and pungent. The whole office was quiet and still, as if s terrible turmoil had just occurred and swept violently away, leaving nothing but a void in its wake. Nigel frowned.

“Severus?” he said tremulously.

Snape didn’t reply, but continued to smoke his pipe.

“Severus?” Nigel repeated. “Are you okay?”

Again, no reply. Nigel turned to light a candle.

“Don’t,” Snape said flatly.

Nigel sighed. He sat across from Snape’s desk and surveyed the dark office, waiting for his cousin to explain his odd mood.

“You want to talk?” Nigel asked, unsure of what sort of response he would get. He half expected Snape to throw him out of the office. But Snape didn’t. He just kept smoking his pipe.

“She came today,” he finally said. His voice was strained, depleted of emotion. It trembled slightly.

“Who came?” Nigel asked.

Snape didn’t respond right away, instead relighting his pipe and smoking it anew. “Allegra came today, Nigel.”

“To see Neville?”

Snape sighed. “In part, yes. To speak to many people here, many of your old teachers.”

“Including you.”

“Yes, Nigel, including me. She’s basically digging for gossip about you, finding anything the Ministry might use against you.”

“Great,” Nigel grumbled. He felt sorely tempted to use Legilimency on his cousin just then, but decided to respect Snape’s privacy. Still, he sensed that there was more to their interview than questions about Nigel. He remembered that Allegra had worked there years ago, when she and Snape were much younger…of course! It must be! Nigel suddenly felt incredibly stupid for not seeing it before.

“You and she were, uh,” he began, “well, I mean, you were…”

Snape rolled his eyes impatiently. “Yes, Nigel, we were.”

“Wow. Gods, Severus, I had no idea! How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

“Almost twenty years.”

Nigel chuckled, but stopped when Snape threw him a deadly glare. “What?” Nigel asked. He sensed trouble.

“You think it’s funny?” Snape hissed.

“What? No, of course not, Severus! I think it’s sort of sweet, actually.”

“I seem to remember you having this attitude before, with Sophia.”

“No, Severus, I…”

“Does it amuse you to think of me in that way? Do think me incapable…”

“Now hang on, Severus, you’re overreacting!”

“Am I?”

“What is wrong with you, mate?” Nigel wished he could have taken back the last word of that sentence. He had never even remotely dreamed of calling Severus Snape “mate” before. Snape’s face grew distorted with rage.

“Get out,” he growled, nostrils flaring.

“What did I say?” Nigel insisted. “Look, Severus, whatever it was, I’m sorry, alright?”

“Get out!” he roared.

An indignant Nigel stood up. “You know, Severus, you can be a real fucking tosser sometimes! I don’t know what your problem is, but I really hate it when you take out your insecurities on me!”

Snape whipped out his wand and pointed it straight at Nigel. Nigel was incensed.

“What do you think you’re doing, pulling a wand on me?” he shouted. And with a single wave of Nigel’s hand, Snape’s wand flew up and away, clattering on the floor. Nigel turned on his heel and stormed out of the office. The door slammed so hard behind him that the force of it caused one of the paintings just outside to crash to the floor with a terrible noise. Nigel didn’t stop to put it right. Instead, he strode angrily through the corridor, up the stone steps and into the Entrance Hall, muttering furiously under his breath all the way.

“I’d watch my language, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer.”

Nigel stopped in his tracks, turning to see a very cross Minerva McGonagall. He blushed.

“Sorry, Minerva,” he said glumly.

“Severus?”

“How did you guess?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding?” She kindly took him by the arm and led him out the front door, where they sat down on the steps outside.

“I just don’t understand him sometimes,” Nigel confessed. By now he had calmed down—mostly. He sighed and looked up and the stars sparkling in the night sky. The chilly air felt refreshing as he took it into his lungs. “He can be such a pain in the backside sometimes, you know?”

“I’ve known Severus for twenty years as a teacher, and seven years as a student—he is largely the same as he ever was, I’m afraid.”

“He didn’t have a lot of friends as a student, did he?”

“No. Not many. He was great friends with Lily Evans, of course, but they mostly kept that between themselves.”

“Severus and Harry’s mum? I had no idea!”

“It wasn’t romantic or anything, of course. Lily was involved with James in that way.”

“What about Allegra?” Nigel asked. “Was Severus involved with her as a student?”

McGonagall pursed her lips in a way that told Nigel that she would rather not reply. “Not as a student.”

“But as teachers?”

She smiled lightly. “It does happen from time to time, you know. Teachers have lives and hearts, too.”

“But she left. It must have been hard on him.”

“I think it was, though he would never admit that. Severus is far too proud to wear his heart on his sleeve.”

Nigel frowned. “I’m such a jerk, Minerva.”

“And that’s news?” she quipped.

“It just that, I laughed when I shouldn’t have, but it wasn’t because I was mocking him! I just thought was sort of sweet, hearing about his love life.”

McGonagall raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Well, I’m sure he’ll realise that soon enough.”

“I hope so. He threw me out of his office, which he hasn’t done in a long time. For once, I don’t think I deserved it!”

“Well if Severus is in the wrong, then it is up to him to make amends. That’s all you can do. Nigel, you aren’t a student any more. It is not up to you to try and please him so he’ll give you an O. You are equals now, and Severus has to realise that and grow up. Let him come to you.”

Nigel nodded. “I know. You’re right. But what if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’s a fool.”

* * * * *

Lying in bed that night, all Nigel could do was stare up at the ceiling and think too many troubling thoughts. Doubts about the case against him, Ginny’s wellbeing, and now, trampling on his beloved cousin’s heartstrings. He couldn’t help but think of himself as a crass, arrogant jerk—Ginny had called him arrogant before, as had Fowler. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps this was yet another case where Nigel felt he could say or do what he wanted by virtue of his high reputation. 

Or perhaps McGonagall had a point. Perhaps it was time for both him and Severus to grow up and stand together like men, ready do to anything for the other, all feelings aside. They had done so before, even when Nigel was a student at Hogwarts—he knew that, besides family ties, the one thing that drew them close together was their mutual love for Potions. In more ways than he understood, he and Severus shared a similar worldview, a way of reasoning through problems and seeing the greater picture. Nigel thought about all those hours they spent together, sharing ideas and challenging each other to make better and more refined potions—that was their bond, the instrument that sealed their love.

Nigel wanted to grasp onto that now, use what he had learned from Severus in these terrible times—perhaps it was time to set aside his emotions, clear his head and get to the bottom of this mystery. He had to recapture his strength and take command of the situation, and stop allowing himself to be victimised by those out to destroy him. As for Severus, Nigel would have to make amends with him when the time was right. That would largely be up to Severus. Nigel had to leave it at that…for now.


	15. Peace Treaty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In truth, he missed his cousin terribly. He always did when the fought like this. The last serious argument they had, fortunately, lasted only a few hours. Snape had never held onto resentment against Nigel for this long. Nigel knew, of course, that Snape had longer, deeper resentments. He had hated and held grudges, for example, against Harry’s father, whom Nigel suspected Snape still hated._
> 
> _But this was different, entirely different._
> 
> _They were family, friends, colleagues. They had healed Draco Malfoy together, helped Harry together, brought down Lord Voldemort together. Snape had healed Nigel’s broken ankle, strengthened his spirits, given him so many things to ponder and learn. They would have to reconcile. Nigel didn’t know what he would do if they didn’t. He couldn’t imagine life without Severus Snape in it, and as each day passed, Nigel worried even more._

For a full week, Nigel didn’t hear a single word from Snape. At first, Nigel felt awful and guilty, but as the days passed, Nigel grew angry and impatient with him. McGonagall had a point about him—Severus Snape might be forty-one years old, but there were times when he behaved like a petulant ten year-old. This standoff was just another temper tantrum…Nigel hoped.

In truth, he missed his cousin terribly. He always did when the fought like this. The last serious argument they had, fortunately, lasted only a few hours. Snape had never held onto resentment against Nigel for this long. Nigel knew, of course, that Snape had longer, deeper resentments. He had hated and held grudges, for example, against Harry’s father, whom Nigel suspected Snape still hated. But this was different, entirely different. They were family, friends, colleagues. They had healed Draco Malfoy together, helped Harry together, brought down Lord Voldemort together. Snape had healed Nigel’s broken ankle, strengthened his spirits, given him so many things to ponder and learn. They would have to reconcile. Nigel didn’t know what he would do if they didn’t. He couldn’t imagine life without Severus Snape in it, and as each day passed, Nigel worried even more.

But he couldn’t let that detract him from what he needed to do. There were people to see, information to gather, and answers to be discovered—and quickly. As each day passed, it seemed as if the Ministry had actively worked to strengthen their case against Nigel, in spite of his statement. Nigel therefore had to work that much harder to get at the truth, if was to continue to see the light of day, rather than languishing in Azkaban for the rest of his life. The image of the dying Lucius Malfoy haunted his mind and memory—the very last thing Nigel wanted was to end up like that, alone and nearly forgotten, rotting away in a dark cell with no one to comfort him. Ginny…what would she do if Nigel were convicted? What would happen to her? He hated to think on it.

The Law Enforcement Office had made it abundantly clear to Nigel that a simple statement made under Veritaserum wouldn’t be enough to set him free. Naturally, they must have thought either that he could speak the truth and hide details that they specifically didn’t ask for. Thus, Nigel reckoned, he could have hired someone to kill Fowler—they never asked about that. He also knew they believed him capable of nearly anything magically. It was true—the force of his magic was extraordinary. He remembered how a flash of anger caused all the doors in his friend’s house to slam shut. He remembered mending a broken mirror without a wand. And of course, there was that binding charm he used his first night as Head Boy—Nigel had thrust out his hands to quell an impending riot, and ended up casting a paralysing spell on the entire room. He had stopped time in the space of a single room when he worked in the Ministry.

So why not outwit Veritaserum? Nigel knew he couldn’t do that, but on the other hand, Pierce and Borisov didn’t know that. They likely saw him as some sort of superwizard or something, and it didn’t help that Nigel was a Slytherin. It probably didn’t help, either, that he had brought peace to the Hogwarts houses—the Law Enforcement office probably thought he had Imperiused the school or something, Nigel thought bitterly.

He really needed Snape. Snape was the only one who really understood him in this way. Nigel was half tempted to run back to Hogwarts and beg him forgiveness, though it was Snape who owed him the apology. But no. That would be a bad idea. McGonagall was right. Reconciliation had to be initiated by Snape.

In the meantime, Nigel made another decision, to go to Hugh Smedley’s home. He had given up the idea of talking to him at St. Mungo's, figuring it was too risky for both of them. But it was obvious to Nigel that there was a lot more that Hugh must know. He was determined to find out, and if he had to use extraordinary means…Nigel took a deep breath, cautioning himself not to go overboard.

Hugh Smedley lived in Bayswater, with his father and a houseful of children. Mr. Smedley had adopted no fewer than fourteen witch and wizard children over the years, the youngest being five and the oldest three being ten. He did everything for these children, including giving them their lessons in reading and maths and a little bit of magic. Ever since he retired from a lucrative career in wizard real estate, Mr. Smedley had sworn to make his life, as he termed it, relevant. Thus, it was one of the proudest days of his life when his son, Hugh, decided to go into the Healing profession.

“You’ll be serving the community in the best way possible, son,” he had told Hugh.

As Nigel approached the front door of the mansion, he stopped. This was a house of joy and good cheer—how could he bring such dark troubles to this lovely place? Nigel felt horribly guilty, but on the other hand, he needed to know everything that Hugh could tell him. He braced himself and knocked on the massive red door. Immediately, Nigel could hear the sounds of dogs barking and children screeching. He half smiled, remembering his cousin, Tony’s place, which was much the same as this. After a minute, a very tired-looking House Elf opened the door. The elf was bigger than most he had seen, though she looked a bit harassed and overburdened. Looking up at the famous Nigel Chaucer, all she could do was goggle.

“Hello,” Nigel said politely. “Is this the Smedley residence?”

For a moment, the elf said nothing, but continued to stare. “You’re…you’re…” she started.

“Yes, I’m Nigel Chaucer. I’m a friend of Hugh’s. Is he at home?”

Again, the elf only stared for a moment, but suddenly, she raced inside and up the stairs, leaving Nigel on the doorstep, staring after her through the open door. After a very long minute, the elf returned, slightly more composed her ears back, her tennis ball eyes less intense. She gave Nigel a gentle smile and a little bow, and then shut the door in his face.

“Wait!” he called out. Stunned, he knocked again, louder this time. “Hello? Please! I need to speak to Hugh!” Again he knocked, but no one came. Finally, a thoroughly frustrated Nigel stepped back—if he knocked any louder, they might call the muggle police, and that was the last thing Nigel wanted. He was in enough trouble as it was.

All he could do was wait for Hugh to leave the house. Nigel sat down on the curb and rested his chin in his hands, thinking. Hugh must have been home, right? Or was his father unwilling to let Nigel in the house? Could it be that Mr. Smedley thought Nigel was guilty? Did Hugh? Allegra’s information was a bit sketchy on that. And so, Nigel sat and sat and sat, for five, long, numbing hours until finally, at long last, the door to the house opened. Nigel heard footsteps behind him getting closer and closer until they stopped right behind him.

“What are you doing here?” Hugh asked quietly.

“Waiting to speak to you.”

“About what?”

“About Henry. About what you saw.”

“I already talked to that detective, Nigel, and to Law Enforcement. I told them everything.”

“That can’t be, Hugh. You hardly said anything.”

Hugh sat down next to Nigel. His face looked tired, strained. He was pale and thin. “I told them what Henry did, Nigel.”

“You gave some vague detail, but I want to know more.”

“Like what? I don’t know what else to say.”

Nigel winced as a stab of pain shot through his back. “Listen, mate, do you mind if we go inside? I’ve got a really bad back. Plus, I’m freezing my arse off.”

Hugh helped Nigel struggle to his feet, and together, they went into the Smedley house. Nigel suppressed a gasp of awe as he looked around at the luxurious mansion. It was the most beautiful, grand home he had seen in a very long time, almost as elegant as Malfoy Manor. A massive crystal chandelier hung in the entryway, bathing the entire entry hall with dramatic candlelight. A vase of purple and yellow flowers adorned one side table, and another vase of white flowers rested on the other side. At the foot of the winding staircase lay a pink tricycle with white and yellow ribbons on the handlebars. Hugh led Nigel up the staircase, down a long corridor packed with pictures all over the walls, and into his bedroom which was surprisingly simple, almost Spartan. He directed Nigel to sit at his writing desk.

“Look, whatever you have to say won’t get you in trouble, will it?” Nigel asked.

“It might. I don’t know any more. Ever since the murder and Henry’s disappearance, no one is sure of anything any more.”

“Say, Hugh,” Nigel asked, “do you know anything about Frank Longbottom?”

“Whatever you did to him, it’s totally reversed,” Hugh said, his voice tinged with sadness.

“Damn.”

“If you want my opinion, I was all in favour of what you were doing, Nigel. I just wish that others saw it that way, too. Fowler might be alive.”

Nigel frowned. “So you think he was killed over Frank Longbottom?”

Hugh shrugged. “That seems to be a big reason.”

“But then that makes it seem like I did it. You don’t think I’m guilty, do you?”

“Well no, of course not.”

“Who else would kill Fowler over Frank?”

“I have no idea. Maybe another Healer? Maybe Penn?”

“Derek?” Nigel exclaimed. But then he remembered the conversation with Allegra, and all the possible suspects. Derek Penn was amongst them. “But what would cause him to want to do that?”

“Maybe he got sick of Fowler meddling with the patients,” Hugh suggested.

“A power struggle?”

Could be. Or…

“But that makes any of the department heads potential suspects,” Nigel continued. “I’m sure that Penn’s department was not the only one meddled with by Fowler. Look, mate, we’ve got to talk about Henry. You said he was following me, right?”

“For a few days.”

“And you followed him for?”

“Just a couple of days.”

“Including the night of the murder?”

“He did something with his wand. He sort of smacked his head with it or something.”

“The Disillusionment Charm,” Nigel murmured. “Clever. I wonder where he picked up that one. So then what?”

“Well, he just disappeared.”

“Did you see him reappear?”

“No. Maybe he reappeared in Fowler’s office.”

Suddenly, Nigel had a terrible thought. “Fowler was strangled, right? He could have disapparated out of it, but for some reason, didn’t. Maybe it was because…”

Hugh’s face lit up. “Because he didn’t see his attacker?”

“Exactly!” Nigel said. “Maybe they argued in his office. Maybe Henry was sick of being a spy on a friend. Maybe he wanted it all to end.”

“But if they argued in his office, wouldn’t Fowler have seen him?”

“Unless they argued earlier.”

Hugh nodded. “True. But think on it, Nigel. Henry is our friend, our teammate.”

“A teammate who saw fit to spy on another teammate,” Nigel grumbled. “What else do you know, Hugh? You’ve got to tell me everything. How was Henry those last few days before he disappeared?”

“The night you left for Azkaban, I saw him only briefly. We were just finishing up in the ward—I was busy with a patient in an exam room, and Henry was doing something else. He barely looked at me when we left for the night at seven. I thought he was stressed out by what Fowler was making him do.”

“Did you sense that Henry suspected you of following him?”

“No. I pretty much tried to keep my distance, I mean, I’m not crazy or anything.”

That didn’t sound right. “Did you think he might do something to you?”

Hugh became flustered. He blushed. “Well, I don’t know about that, I mean, but I mean…it just seemed like a big issue. Fowler was determined to get you out, no matter what. That was clear to everyone.”

“And no one questioned him? No one countermanded him?”

“Not that I know of. Then again, maybe Penn did, or another department head.”

Nigel scowled. “Thanks, Hugh, for talking to me.”

“I hope I helped you.”

“Well, you certainly gave me a lot to think about. I’m so sorry about all this. I hope you don’t get into any trouble over me or anyone else. You’re a good guy.”

“Hey, I’m always ready to help another Slytherin in need,” Hugh said. He smiled. “You know, Nigel, I had a thought the other day, something that might help you get reinstated and help Frank Longbottom at the same time.”

“What’s that? Bribery perhaps?”

“A potion.”

“There is no potion. That’s the problem. The potion they give him just makes him worse!”

“You invented a potion that takes away a wizard’s powers, right? And a Shield potion that protects even against Unforgivables!” 

“I only sort of tweaked a Shield potion that already existed. I just strengthened it.”

“If you invented a potion that does the same thing as that muggle stuff, you could use it on Frank.”

It was a thought. Actually, Nigel mused, it was a bloody good idea. On the other hand…

“I don’t know, Hugh. I mean, I like the idea, but…”

“But what? Nigel, you’re the best potions master around! It should be a snap for you!”

Nigel nodded, unsure how to respond to that pronouncement. A snap? Inventing a brand new potion? A snap? Was Hugh serious? Nigel knew he was, which is what made him so nervous. After all, creating a potion took time and energy—it was one thing when he was searching for a solution to the Geoffrey Taylor crisis. Something drastic was needed, and quickly. Hundreds, if not thousands of lives were on the line if Nigel didn’t act fast. This was entirely different. So many things could go wrong with a potion like that, too many drastic side effects that could compromise Frank’s health.

But on the other hand, it was something to consider.

* * * * *

Armed with new information, Nigel went straight from the Smedley mansion to the offices of Thorpe and Brigantes—Allegra’s office. The office was sleek and white, orderly and immaculate. Nigel had never been in such a place before. In truth, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect from her office—she held as many contradictions as Snape did, as far as Nigel could see. Perhaps that’s what drew them together so long ago. One thing Nigel knew for sure was that he would not bring up the affair, or whatever it was.

Allegra wore blood red robes that day, a stark and breathtaking contrast to the white all around the office. She looked…breathtaking. Nigel could see why Snape was so attracted to her. How could he not? Allegra was beautiful, but not in the stereotypical way. There was an inner beauty that she radiated, even now in her early 40s. Unlike many women of a certain age, Allegra had kept her figure, and yet, there was nothing ostentatious about her. She was so natural, so unaffected, and yet vulnerable and imperfect. Nigel appreciated that about her very much, because it made her approachable and real.

She listened with great interest as Nigel told her all about his visit with Hugh Smedley. As he spoke, she wrote down a long litany of notations on a piece of sparkling white parchment. Her quill was something Nigel had never seen before—red enamel and tiny sparkling gold stones.

“Were you in Gryffindor?” Nigel asked.

Allegra smiled. “You’re very quick, aren’t you?”

“It’s the quill.”

“I once gave Severus a similar one in green and silver.”

“A token of love?”

“Has he apologised to you yet?” she asked.

Nigel flushed. “Did he tell you he threw me out of his office?”

“He feels just awful about it, if you want to know the truth.”

Nigel scowled. “Well he doesn’t seem to be in a huge rush to make amends.”

“You know how he is.” Allegra laughed. “He hasn’t changed much over the years. Still very proud. But you know his heart.”

“I know,” Nigel admitted. “Honestly, Allegra, I’ve never known anyone as bloody stubborn as Severus! Even Malfoy had the humility to admit when he was wrong.”

Allegra blanched. “Malfoy? Lucius Malfoy?”

“His son, Draco. He’s a good friend.”

She frowned. “You’re friends with a Malfoy?”

“He’s not like that, Allegra, really. He was, at one point, I mean, he was slated to turn out just like his old man, but he changed. He saw what he was turning into and he chose to reject it. I mean, Draco’s not perfect or anything. He’s no saint or anything. But he’s got a good heart, which he didn’t have before.”

“His father would be scandalised.”

“I know. But Lucius is dead now, so he can’t do any more harm to people.”

Allegra seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “Lucius Malfoy is the reason I had to leave Hogwarts, you know. Both times.”

“What do you mean?”

“As a student, I left after my third year because of something Malfoy did to me….”

Nigel didn’t ask, but he sensed what it was.

“…and when I returned there to teach, he had joined the Board of Governors. I didn’t quite have the strongest reputation back in those days.”

“What do you mean by that?” Nigel asked.

“Let’s just say that I…was the Ministry broomstick, if you catch my meaning.”

Nigel nodded. He understood perfectly. “So in other words, you were…how shall I say… _friendly_ with men?”

She grinned. “And women. Honestly, Nigel, I was awful in those days. Totally out of control. Severus was the one who really grounded me—it was the most intimate and intense relationship I’d ever had.”

“What about after you left? Why did you leave in the first place?”

“Lucius threatened to use my reputation against me, to destroy my career. I had no reason to doubt him.”

“I don’t blame you, actually.”

“It was so hard to leave Hogwarts and Severus, but I had no choice. I wanted Severus to leave with me, but he said he couldn’t. Obligations or something. It was an ugly, painful scene. It really tore us both apart.”

That made Nigel feel even worse for laughing at Snape. “I’m a real jerk, aren’t I?”

“No. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault if he never mentioned our relationship.”

“It’s not that I’m trying to be a gossip or anything,” Nigel replied, almost apologetically. “He’s so private all the time, even with me, I mean, I know he tells me more than what he tells anyone else…”

“He loves you.”

“I know.” Nigel wrung his hands in frustration. “I don’t want to pry. I want to respect his privacy, I really do.” He suddenly chuckled at himself. “I’m the total opposite, I mean, look at me, spilling my guts to you like this.”

“It’s okay,” she replied. “I appreciate your openness. I’m sure he does, too.”

“It’s just that if he would tell me things, maybe I would know more how not to offend him like this, you know?”

“In other words, you want him to be more like you.” Allegra smiled.

“Maybe,” Nigel admitted. “I know, it’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“It’s not. It’s called being human.”

Nigel bit his lip. “What exactly did happen between you and Malfoy? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

She lowered her eyes for a moment. Nigel felt his heart sink.

“Never mind, Allegra,” he said furtively. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business. But does Severus know what happened?”

“He’s the only person alive that knows.”

“Then you should keep it between yourselves. You know, Severus was the one, well, besides Minerva McGonagall, who sort of brought me into the wizarding world in the first place. I can still remember the first time I saw him. He scared the crap out of me.”

“Me, too,” she said. They laughed. “My one year teaching at Hogwarts, I swear he was the weirdest person I had ever met, at first anyway. He would sort of skulk in dark corners, and he never liked to sit in the Staff Room with anyone.”

“Typical! Did you manage to get him to come out of himself?”

Allegra shrugged. “A little. Maybe.”

“Wow. That’s so weird to think about that.”

“We were about your age, maybe a year older.”

“No it’s not that. It’s just trying to imagine him at my age. That’s a challenge. Severus is the sort of bloke who was born old, you know?”

Allegra laughed. “And I’m sure he’d appreciate you calling him a bloke!”

Nigel blushed. “I called him _mate_ last week. I don’t think that helped much, especially after I laughed at him.” He stood up. “Well, I should get going.


	16. Confrontation at the Shrieking Shack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Look, Henry, I want you to come with me. I want to bring you in, so to speak, to talk to my attorney. You need to tell your story to him.”_
> 
> _“I can’t do that, Nigel, I…”_
> 
> _“Henry, you have to! They’re going to send me to Azkaban unless we can provide some evidence to exonerate me!”_
> 
> _“Nigel, my life is over if I talk! I’ll never work as a Healer again if I talk!”_
> 
> _“And I’ll rot in Azkaban if you don’t!” Nigel shouted._

Sometimes he really wanted to strangle Severus Snape.

Bad expression, current situation considered.

Sometimes, Nigel wanted to smack Severus Snape upside his greasy head. Pride told Nigel not to go to Snape at all. Listen to McGonagall’s advice and let Snape come to him. On the other hand, Hugh’s idea stayed with him for the next couple of days, and by the time Ginny had returned from her most recent excursion to Canada for the Canadian Quidditch Championship match between Halifax and Edmonton, with Halifax winning 652-506 in a three day match. 

That night at Ron and Hermione’s cozy little house, Ginny regaled Nigel, Ron and Hermione with exciting tales of near misses and spectacular dives and amazing goals at the match. Ron listened enviously, whereas Hermione looked a bit bored with it all.

“You should have seen Finn,” Ginny gushed. “He was like a god or something! Better than Viktor Krum!”

“Did he do the Wronski Feint?” Ron asked.

“He did it so fast the other Seeker crashed. It stopped the match for a full half hour until they could fix her bloody nose and broken jaw! But then the crowd started chanting for Finn, and before anyone knew it, the other side started chanting back, and the referees were afraid a real fight would break out! But then the Edmonton Seeker’s nose was okay again, and the match resumed.”

“So who’s looking good for the World Cup?” Nigel asked.

“Italy versus Russia,” Ron said authoritatively.

Ginny made a face. “After their showing in their National Championship? Fyodorikov barely caught the Snitch!”

“Yeah, but the match was only about an hour!”

“It was a joke,” Ginny said. “The American team is looking really sharp this season. I see the U.S. versus Brazil this time.”

Hermione got up and went to the kitchen, returning after a minute with a bottle of white wine and a plate of cheeses and fruit.

“Thanks,” Ron said gratefully, grabbing a fistful of cubes of edam cheese and a pile of apple wedges before realising that no one else had been served, including his two guests. Ginny rolled her eyes and took a few bits of cheese and a tangerine. Nigel followed suit. 

In the midst of everything going on, it was moments like this, that made all things tolerable for Nigel. In truth, he hated it more and more when Ginny had to go away, usually for days at a time, leaving him to wait and worry alone. He did not begrudge her for having this exciting career that took her all over the globe. In fact, Nigel often wished he could go with her. Even though he had never played the game, he loved to watch it. On rare occasions, Nigel got the opportunity of attending a match with his wife. He only wished he could go more often—until recently, work and responsibility kept him close to home. As he watched her and listened to her carry on so commandingly about her work and her vast knowledge of the Quidditch world, Nigel began to feel a desire to become almost domestic, settled into an easy life.

Being a Healer would have been so perfect. He could have set up a private practice and still had time for potions. But his entire future depended on whether McDowell and Allegra could get him out of trouble. It was true that Nigel had powerful friends at the Ministry, including the Minister of Magic and Kingsley Shaklebolt, but it was also true that there was a faction that wanted him to go to Azkaban. Nigel had no doubt that the Law Enforcement office was determined to see him imprisoned—after all, Fowler was a relative of a high-ranking officer. Fowler had powerful connections, too. But enough. This was a splendid, lush night surrounded by good friends, great food and talk of sport and games. It was wrong to dwell on the negative.

Ginny glanced over at him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a bit quiet tonight, love,” she said.

“I was just thinking,” Nigel said. “Hugh gave me an interesting idea the other day, and I thought I might pursue it.”

“About the case?” Ron asked.

“No, about a potion.”

“A potion?” Hermione asked.

“A potion.” Nigel told them about his conversation with Hugh, which interested Hermione very much.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea, Nigel,” she said. “This is something that could be used by a lot of people, even Alice Longbottom.”

“True,” Ginny echoed.

“If she’s up to it,” Nigel said. “You can’t just give a potion to a patient without assessing their total health. Something like that could be too powerful for a really sick person.”

“So you’re going to do it, then?” Ron asked eagerly.

Nigel paused. “It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like this, but yeah, I mean, why not?”

The next day, Nigel made a trip to the Wizarding National Archives, located in a grubby alleyway in London. Just has he had done before, Nigel stood before the rusty door, wand out. Tapping the lock on the door four times, he said, “aperi tabulae!” With a loud creak, the door swung open, admitting Nigel to the towering collection of every sort of magical tome imaginable. Nigel wasn’t sure where to look this time, so he asked the archivist witch to help him out.

Sitting in a carel in a dark corner of the archive, Nigel pored through the pile of books that lay before him—everything from mood enhancers, results of torture, physical symptoms of depression, and so on. He even looked through books by dark wizards, figuring that knowing their evil intentions might help him to find a counter-curse. The must and dust of the volumes made him sneeze.

And then he stopped. He listened. What was that he heard just now? A rustle of fabric, a squeaky shoe. And then…

“Nigel!” a voice whispered almost inaudibly.

Nigel whipped around, but saw no one. “Who’s there?” he called out in a low voice.

Nothing. Nigel shivered and returned to his reading. More on the magical properties of St. John’s Wort. Muggles used that, too, as an antidepressant. But was it strong enough? Could he pair it with something to channel its power? Nigel set the book down and sighed. Snape would know the answer to this. But Snape wasn’t talking to him right now.

“Nigel!” There it went again! That same, disembodied voice! Closer this time.

Nigel stood up, wand out.

“Who is there?” he demanded, his voice stronger now.

“I can’t reveal myself,” the voice said, sounding very terrified and uncertain.

The voice sounded familiar. Nigel pondered for a moment. “Henry?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

“Not here,” the voice replied, softer now.

“Where?”

“The Shrieking Shack. In an hour.”

Nigel could hear the sound of shoes squeaking again, but going away from him. Why the Shrieking Shack? Nigel wondered if he should go, or if he should tell Ron to arrest Henry on the spot. After all, Henry had betrayed him, spied on him as if he were a criminal. And how was Nigel to know if this were all a big set-up? How could he be sure it would be just the two of them, and not an army of Law Enforcement officers, armed with wands and damning new evidence? Ginny was at the office all day, working on her current piece on the Canadian match, so there wasn’t exactly time to consult with her first. Plus, he reckoned she would be as interested as he was in what Henry had to say—actually, Nigel suspected that Ginny might want to hex Henry if she got anywhere near him.

He was too distracted now to read on, and so reluctantly, Nigel packed away the books and headed out of the Archives, apparating straight to Hogsmeade. As he strode through the snowy streets, Nigel wondered whom he might encounter, now that the students were all gone for the Christmas holiday. The streets were packed with holiday shoppers, all looking for gifts for Christmas or Solstice or Chanukah. He looked all over for familiar faces, Snape’s in particular, but recognised no one. Nigel trudged onward, stopping for a brief moment in Scrivenshaft’s—it was the glint of gold and red that caught his eye for a moment. It was the very same quill he saw in Allegra’s office, and sure enough, right next to it was one in green and silver. Nigel reached out to pick it up, presumably to purchase it, but then he stopped himself. What if Severus saw him with that quill? Would he think Nigel was mocking him all over again? Would seeing that quill bring back painful memories to him?

“May I be of assistance to you, Mr. Chaucer?” the proprietor asked politely.

“No, no thank you,” Nigel replied.

“It is a beautiful quill. We have them in other colours.”

“Very elegant.”

“And just three Galleons. A real bargain, considering the enameling. Made by hand in Italy.”

“Thanks, but not today.” With that, Nigel exited the store quickly, heading out of town and towards the Shrieking Shack. The wintry afternoon air felt bracing against his skin as he made his way up the street, still keeping a cautious eye out for anyone familiar. No one. 

The path to the Shrieking Shack brought back all sorts of memories to Nigel. He couldn’t help but think of his very first trip to Hogsmeade, back in the days when he had no idea what a wizard was or that he had become one. As he passed by Honeydukes, he thought with a laugh about the confusion he created when he realised that they had a completely different currency. Thinking on those lost, innocent days, Nigel wondered who he had been, what and where he would be now had he not mysteriously become a wizard. A doctor? Well, a medical student, anyway, in his first year at Stanford. And not married, likely.

Lucy Fairchild would probably still be alive. That made his heart hurt.

Ginny never mentioned Lucy, ever. Nigel wasn’t sure if was out of consideration for his feelings, considering the terrible way his muggle former girlfriend died, or if it were for more personal reasons. In truth, Nigel never mentioned Lucy to Ginny, either, though he did at times think about her. They had worked so hard to become a couple, so long ago now, and all the fights they had still made Nigel mourn, in his quieter, more contemplative moments. But he remembered the sweeter times, too, their long walks and all those hours spent just hanging out in McDougal’s, Nigel’s favourite café in St. Luke. They laughed and joked about and studied and a lot of the time, just talked and talked about anything and everything. He was careful not to reminisce about that in Ginny’s presence.

In fact, Ginny and Lucy shared many similarities—a strong, feisty spirit, a love of adventure, an almost heartbreaking tenderness and alluring sensuality—he felt certain that he was so strongly attracted to both women for these very reasons. Nigel never liked the sort of girl who waited on him or by contrast, was too overbearing. He liked girls he could talk to, laugh with, share values and ideals with, and with no judgement. As painfully as he sometimes missed Lucy, even now, Nigel never regretted his decision to marry Ginny. He had known from his very first days at Hogwarts, back when he studied with Snape only on Saturdays, that Ginny was someone special, different, precious in his sight. He had loved her then, and even when they had gone their separate ways—she with Harry, he with Lucy—Nigel never lost his attraction to her. And now they had each other, forever.

He stood to lose everything unless he could get himself out of this mess. Nigel hurried on towards the Shrieking Shack to meet Henry Prewett, hoping that Henry could provide Nigel with the missing pieces of the troubling puzzle.

* * * * *

Nigel had never been inside the Shrieking Shack. Harry told him some time ago that his father and some of his friends used to gather there when Remus Lupin transformed into a werewolf. Their raucous nights there were wild times, according to Harry. These days, however, the Shack was much quieter, now a tourist attraction, known as the most haunted house in England. Even a few muggles knew about it, though few dared to go past there. Nigel stood before the place now, wondering what he would encounter when he walked inside.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as soon as he walked inside and shut the door behind him. Dust billowed up and out as the door slammed on its rusty hinges, causing Nigel to cough and sneeze. He looked up at the dingy surroundings, unimpressed by the greying wood and bare walls and rotted out planks on the floor below and ceiling above.

“Hello?” he called out. No response. Perhaps he was early. Nigel conjured up a bright green pouf and sat down to rest his aching back. He was always in terrible pain in the cold months, ever since his accident when nearly every bone in his body was broken. He had endured months of excruciating physical therapy to get his strength back, but even now, five years later, Nigel knew all too well that his body still wasn’t quite the same. It likely never would be completely healthy.

But that was of little consequence now.

“Hello?” he called out again. Nigel listened carefully for any response, any slight movement or rustle.

“Who’s there?” a voice whispered. That same voice he had heard in the Archives.

“Henry? It’s Nigel. It’s okay, I’m quite alone.”

Before his eyes, Henry suddenly appeared before him, looking pale and troubled and stunned. He was dressed like a muggle, in faded jeans and a ratty old red jumper.

“You sure?” he asked. His voice was raspy and haggard.

“Very sure.” 

But now what? Nigel wasn’t sure whether he should embrace Henry for finally finding him, or throttling him for being a filthy spy. He frowned and paced up and down the empty space, trying to gather his thoughts and his nerve.

“You want to kick my arse, don’t you?” Henry said.

“For starters,” Nigel replied coldly. “I’d like some answers. Such as why you told the Ministry that I killed Fowler!”

“I didn’t tell them that! I said I saw you that night! They jumped to their own conclusions! I swear! Look, Nigel, I swear I had no idea that you would get into this much trouble,” Henry said, almost pleading. “I swear it! Honestly! I was just giving some information to Chief Fowler and then Law Enforcement started asking questions and…”

“Why, Henry?” Nigel demanded, cutting across him. “You and I were friends, or so I thought. How could you spy on me? For what reason? Did he promise you a promotion or something?”

“No! It wasn’t like that, I swear! He offered me nothing, as a matter of fact.”

“Then why?”

Henry winced. “You know how he was. He was very persuasive, very knowledgeable. I thought he knew everything about Healing, Nigel!”

That didn’t sound quite right. “And yet you used to tell all those jokes at his expense!” Nigel shot back.

“Well I know, but you see, it was just that when he mentioned his suspicions about you meddling with a patient, and well, he just sounded so convincing, I mean, he really had me thinking you were harming Frank Longbottom!”

“But you know me, Henry!” Nigel yelled. “You know I would NEVER harm a patient! Not for anything!”

“He said you were violating regulations, or he thought you were, so he wanted me to follow you for a week. Just a week, I swear! I just told him what I saw, and that’s it! Nigel, I’m so sorry!” Tears of regret slithered down his round, bearded face as he spoke.

Nigel sighed. “Why did you disappear, then? Why all this cloak and wand stuff now?”

Now, Henry wept openly. “I’m so ashamed! You got in trouble and then Fowler got killed, and I felt so responsible!”

Nigel furrowed his brow. “Henry, did you…”

“NO! I didn’t kill him! No, it’s not that.”

“Then…”

“I saw something, the night of the murder.”

“You witnessed the murder?”

“No. But I saw who might have done it. It’s complicated.”

Nigel grabbed Henry by the sweater. “Who was it? Who did you see?”

Henry hesitated. “Look, Nigel, this is all very wrong. If I hadn’t meddled, he would be alive! I’m sure of it!”

“Who did you see?”

“It was two people, actually. Two people where they shouldn’t have been.”

“Who?”

“I watched you with Frank Longbottom that night, and I could hear you crying in the corridor afterward. But I kept an eye on Frank, because he looked very upset, even though I couldn’t hear what you and he were talking about. He got out of bed and started pacing up and down the ward, pulling at his hair and swearing something fierce. And then he just walked out of the ward.”

“Did you follow him?”

“I started to, but then I was distracted by the arrival of Healer Penn.”

“Derek?”

“He was coming away from the Administrative offices, or so it looked.”

“Coming away or arriving?”

“I don’t know. He just rushed out, hands in pockets, and that was it. I had no idea that any killing had occurred, and so I left, too.”

“And that’s it? You didn’t follow Frank any more?”

Henry shook his head.

Nigel pondered for a moment. “Look, Henry, I want you to come with me. I want to bring you in, so to speak, to talk to my attorney. You need to tell your story to him.”

“I can’t do that, Nigel, I…”

“Henry, you have to! They’re going to send me to Azkaban unless we can provide some evidence to exonerate me!”

“Nigel, my life is over if I talk! I’ll never work as a Healer again if I talk!”

“And I’ll rot in Azkaban if you don’t!” Nigel shouted. “Henry, please, you have to do this! You have to tell what you know! I don’t know, maybe my lawyer can keep your name out of it. Please, Henry. You’re my friend, right?”

“This is very scary for me, Nigel.”

“How do you think it’s been for me?” Nigel roared, losing all patience. “My life is at stake here! You’ve got to help me! Henry, I’m begging you to come with me to my attorney, today. He’s very professional and very discreet. He will be very good to you, I promise.”

But Henry hesitated, his face troubled and afraid. “Look, Nigel, I don’t know, I…”

That was enough for Nigel. He lunged at Henry and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Listen to me, son of a bitch! You owe me!”

“Stop it!”

Nigel let go and stood back, struggling to catch his breath. “Henry, I’m sorry, but you have a duty to tell the truth about what you saw! If you don’t, you’re just guilty of perverting the course of justice, and that’s a pretty serious crime itself! You could end up in Azkaban for that, and if you don’t come in, I’ll see to it you go to Azkaban!”

Henry’s eyes flashed with fury for a quick moment, but then, he sighed heavily. “Alright, Nigel,” he said. “I’ll go. Like I said, I never meant for you to get into this much trouble.”

“Did Fowler ever tell you why he chose you in particular to spy for him?” Nigel asked.

“What does that matter?”

“I don’t know. I was just wondering.” Nigel shrugged. With that, Nigel took a still reluctant Henry by the arm and together, they disapparated.


	17. Ginny's Big Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ginny felt so warm in his arms, so comfortable and sensuous. He gathered her into himself, pressing her close to his body, letting her hands roam where they willed, into placed expected and unexpected. Tongues and lips and teeth danced and caressed and as the night disappeared into the first light of the morning. They lay naked under the duvet, not talking but only resting in each other’s quiet presence, dreaming of more peaceful days to come._
> 
> _When Nigel arose in the morning, he found himself alone…at first._

He told them everything he knew, everything he had said to Nigel, and more, though it was no easy task getting the information out of him. They all sat in McDowell’s office, tightly flanking Henry, feeding him question after detailed question. For three hours, Nigel, McDowell and Allegra listened to Henry’s tearful story of what he saw and exactly when. Henry had only scratched the surface with Nigel at the Shrieking Shack. There was so much more to the story, and each detail angered and horrified Nigel as the time crawled past.

“Were you pressured to follow Nigel?” Allegra asked.

“Somewhat.”

“Somewhat?” Nigel seethed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Nigel, please,” Allegra said.

“Fowler knew about my family history, about my grandfather and all my aunts and uncles being Death Eaters and all, and he threatened to use that against me, to make me seem unfit to be a Healer.”

Nigel scowled. “Sounds familiar,” he grumbled, thinking of all the newspaper articles assaulting his character and his family connections recently. “So you just gave in? Just like that?”

“It was more than just that, Nigel!” Henry said defencively. “He really convinced me that you were doing harm to Frank!”

“You already said that,” Nigel said, “and I still can’t believe you!”

“But you were giving him a muggle drug, and when it started changing Frank, well, I guess I misinterpreted it as some sort of harm.”

Nigel laughed bitterly. “Because it was helping him?”

“He was saying all sorts of nonsense, Nigel! You saw him!”

“And it was the first time he had said anything coherent in twenty years! Don’t you get it? We were working towards getting him to speak about his past, about what was done to him so he could recover from it! And now it’s ruined.”

Henry hung his head in utter shame. “I didn’t know, Nigel. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe ask next time, OK?”

“I said I was sorry!” Henry shouted.

“That’s enough,” McDowell said. “We know you were pressured, so that’s good enough for me. But let’s get back to the night of the murder. You said you saw both Frank and Penn in places where they shouldn’t have been?”

Henry took a moment to collect himself. He scratched his head. “Well maybe not so much that. Like I said, both were just in places I didn’t expect. I mean, Penn always goes home at night, always. I’ve never known him to stay, even when Nigel was working with Frank. But then he showed up that night, looking angry and irritated, and then he headed straight for the administrative offices.”

“Did you follow him?” Allegra asked.

“No. I know I should have, I mean, I had already seen Frank out of his bed earlier, just after Nigel left, in fact.”

“Did you follow either of them?” McDowell asked.

“I stayed put where I was, at the end of the ward, until Nigel had gone, that is.”

“How did you know he was gone?” McDowell asked.

“His crying had stopped and I heard him walk away.”

Nigel blushed. “I was upset after I spoke to Frank. I couldn’t show up to Azkaban an emotional wreck, could I? I had to get my emotions under control.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Allegra said. “Anyone would have been upset by that.”

“A few minutes after Nigel left, I was going to leave, too, but then Frank got out of bed and started pacing up and down, really pulling on his hair and crying and swearing like crazy, and then he just stomped out of the ward, and made his way…” But then, Henry stopped. His face turned red.

“Where did he go?” Nigel asked. He felt he already knew the answer, without having to use Legilimency.

“I don’t know. All I know is that Penn showed up about five minutes later, going in the same direction. That’s when I ran for it.”

“Oh my gods,” Nigel murmured.

“I have no idea what happened, I mean, it could have been anything,” Henry said quickly. “I mean, it could be that Fowler was already dead by then, and maybe Penn thought Frank did it or something and wanted to protect him.”

“It could be. It could also be the opposite,” McDowell mused. “Frank could have caught Penn, and maybe Penn had to do something to keep Frank quiet. I could be that Penn was going to continue Frank’s treatment but had to stop it in order to keep Frank quiet.”

“True,” Henry said. “Frank was saying all sorts of random things, so why not blurt out that Penn is guilty of murder.”

“Either way, Nigel,” Allegra added, “Derek Penn sold you out.”

It was true. Horrible, but true. “Henry,” Nigel said, “I’m sorry for being so hard on you, mate. Really.” He held out a hand to Henry—Henry took it, then gave Nigel a warm embrace.

“You have every reason to be angry with me,” he said, sniffling a little. “I’d be mad at me, too.”

“But you came forward and told us the truth,” Nigel said.

“As far as we know,” McDowell said suspiciously.

“He did, Tom,” Nigel said.

“It’s true,” Allegra affirmed. “I was using Legilimency on him the whole time.”

Nigel goggled at her. “You’re a Legilimens, too?”

Henry frowned. “And how many of my private thoughts did you two invade, anyway?”

“Just when you were telling your story, I swear,” Nigel confessed. He decided not to mention the naughty picture of a blonde model Nigel detected in Henry’s mind.

“The point is, we have an alternate theory of the crime,” McDowell said. “It should be enough to get Law Enforcement off your tail, Nigel.”

“Yeah, unless they think the testimony is manufactured or something,” Nigel groused. “If they didn’t believe me under Veritaserum, they’ll think I modified Henry’s memory or something.”

“Do you know memory charms?” Allegra asked.

“I never learned them,” Nigel replied. “But I don’t know if they’ll believe that. I hung around a lot of Aurors and Unspeakables when I was in the Ministry.”

“That should strengthen your case, then,” McDowell said. “Let me take care of this, put it before the Wizengamot. I’ll file a motion in the morning.”

“What about you, Henry?” Nigel asked. “Where will you go? The Wizengamot will want your testimony.”

“I won’t run, Nigel. I promise.”

“Henry,” Allegra said, “does anyone know you know this information?”

“No. Just all of you.”

“So Penn doesn’t know?”

“I thought of blackmailing him, but I didn’t have the balls to do it, so no, he doesn’t know a thing.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” McDowell said. “The less anyone other than the Wizengamot or Law Enforcement knows, the better is for both of you.”

* * * * *

That night after dinner, Nigel explained the day’s events to an astonished Ginny, who was far less sympathetic than Nigel was.

“He committed a crime!” she shouted. “You can’t just let him get away with that!”

“He was afraid,” Nigel said.

“Bullshit! He’s a grown man, for gods’ sake! You can be such a softy, Nigel.”

“You didn’t see the look in his eyes, Ginny,” Nigel replied. He poured out some more red wine for her and set the bottle aside. “Look, either way, this is the break we’ve been waiting for!”

“Do you really think he’ll go before the Wizengamot with all that?” she wondered. “He’s admitting to a crime if he does. You can’t withhold information like that from the authorities. And for that matter, he was ready to sell you out just as much as Penn was!”

“I know,” Nigel admitted. “But if he’s trying to do the right thing, don’t we have a duty to give him that chance?”’

Ginny scowled, then leaned forward and kissed his lips tenderly. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too.” Ginny felt so warm in his arms, so comfortable and sensuous. He gathered her into himself, pressing her close to his body, letting her hands roam where they willed, into placed expected and unexpected. Tongues and lips and teeth danced and caressed and as the night disappeared into the first light of the morning. They lay naked under the duvet, not talking but only resting in each other’s quiet presence, dreaming of more peaceful days to come.

When Nigel arose in the morning, he found himself alone…at first. He stumbled out of bed and pulled on the jeans he had thrown on the floor the night before during his wild lovemaking with Ginny, then made his way to the bathroom, only to find, to his horror, Ginny hunched over the toilet.

“My gods, Ginny, what’s wrong?” he asked, rushing to her.

“I don’t know,” Ginny said. She looked pale and sickly. “I was feeling a little queasy yesterday, but I made it through just fine. But now, I…” But she stopped talking now, ready to retch again.

Nigel crouched down next to her, feeling her forehead. No fever.

“Do you feel pain?”

“Just nausea. I feel different here.” She indicated her lower abdomen.

“Could it be something you ate?”

“I don’t think so. You and I ate the same.”

Nigel paused for a moment. Could it be? He thought back, counting the weeks. It was definitely possible.

“Ginny, I’d have to take you to St. Mungo’s or to a Healer’s office for an official confirmation, but let me ask you one thing. When was your last cycle?”

She thought a moment, and then her eyes widened. “You don’t think…”

“It could be. It’s very likely, I mean, we do have a pretty active sex life.”

Ginny clapped her hands to her mouth and burst into tears.

“Ginny?”

“This is the wrong time, Nigel! Not now!”

Nigel kissed her lips and put his arms around her. “There’s no such thing as the perfect time, Ginny. This is a good sign for us. I’ve dreamed of this for us!”

Ginny threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. “I love you, Nigel!”

“This is so exciting!” he exclaimed.

Ginny grinned widely, but suddenly, her face fell. Nigel frowned.

“What? What is it?” he asked.

“What if you go to prison?”

“I won’t go to prison.”

“What if you do, Nigel? What if they railroad you and send you to Azkaban?”

“What are you suggesting, Ginny?”

“Nothing! I’m not suggesting anything, baby. I’m just worried is all. I want my daughter to have her father around.”

“I want that, too.”

Ginny laughed. “Look at us! Here we are, new parents, and we’re complaining! Nigel, can you believe it! We’re parents! It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“It’s so strange, isn’t it? I can’t believe it! I mean, we did that!”

Ginny winked at him. “Several times,” she whispered. She kissed him lightly, but again, she turned a light shade of green.

Nigel scooted back. “I’ll make you some ginger tea.”

“Thanks,” she said gratefully.

As Nigel walked to the kitchen, he could hear the sound of her retching again. “Poor kid,” he said to himself. Using his wand, he poured out a cup of hot water, then steeped a teabag in the cup. The light, sweet odour of the ginger tea tickled his nose, making Nigel think of his own parents. They must have felt the same way when they learned they would have a son. Nigel wanted to apparate to their house right away and break the big news, but he knew he couldn’t. First of all, Ginny wasn’t feeling well and needed his Healing talents. Second, they had to confirm that she really was pregnant. Nigel felt certain she was, though. His instincts told him so, and he trusted that.

He hoped.

Ginny was right, in a way. This was a terrible time to bring a new life into the world, especially if he were convicted of murder. The child would never know him, and he couldn’t imagine the story Ginny would have to tell to explain his absence. And even if he were exonerated—no, when, not if—there was still the question of his career. Nigel had no way of knowing whether he would be reinstated at St. Mungo’s, or if he would have to find something new. And if Ginny needed time off, or if she wanted to be a stay-at-home-mum, then what? He suddenly understood the stressed look he saw so frequently on his father’s tired face. Would he look that way, so worn out by work stress and home stress and the stress of making payments and saving for school tuition and setting up his family with a comfortable retirement for their later years?

He hoped not.

But a baby…a baby would change everything. Nigel looked to the future, knowing now that his concerns went far beyond his own, immediate needs. It wasn’t just getting himself out of trouble any more. It was about making a commitment to his child, to his wife. It was about creating a family that would endure, just as his own and Ginny’s had.

The next day, Ginny’s condition was confirmed. The baby, gender still unknown, would be born in September. Ginny groaned.

“That means I’ll be full term during the hot summer?” she asked the family Healer.

“Sorry,” the Healer replied. “You’ll be fine, Mrs. Chaucer. We’ve got some good Charms you can use to keep you nice and cool.”

“And I can probably make a potion that will help,” Nigel added.

Nigel and Ginny decided to set aside their troubles with the law for a day and plan a party to announce the coming of the newest Weasley-Chaucer. Hand in hand, they made their way through Diagon Alley, looking in all the shop windows with renewed interest, as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

“Who do we tell first?” Ginny asked.

“I guess our parents,” Nigel replied. They browsed through Flourish and Blott’s now, looking at baby books and _The Good Witch’s Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy_ , updated for the year 2001. “You like this one?” he asked her. Nigel didn’t have the first idea what constituted a good pregnancy guide.

Ginny thumbed through it for a couple of minutes, glancing through the index, then the table of contents, and then the first chapter. “I heard about this one from Fleur, when they had their first. She liked it a lot. I think Pansy has this one, too.”

Nigel snatched the book from her hand. “Perfect. We’ll take it. What else do we need?”

Ginny poked him in the ribs. “You’re the Healer. You tell me.”

“I’m only an intern, and one whose arse is in hot water just now,” he shot back.

“Well you must do something right,” she quipped. “After all, you managed to get me into this condition.”

Nigel nodded and rubbed his chin in mock pensiveness. “True enough. Well, we can safely say that at least part of me works right.”

Ginny kissed his cheek. “You’re an idiot. But you’re my idiot.”

“Ginny! Nigel!” a woman’s voice called out. A familiar woman’s voice. Ginny and Nigel groaned, then slowly turned around.

“Hermione!” Ginny squealed. “How are you?”

“Great!” Hermione eyed the book in Nigel’s hand. “So, what’s this I see?”

Ginny and Nigel threw warning looks at each other. “Oh, we’re just browsing is all,” Ginny said, trying to sound casual.

Hermione raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Browsing baby books?” And then she took Ginny by the arm. “Ginny, are you pregnant?”

A few customers glanced over in their direction and smiled. Ginny looked again at Nigel for direction, but he deferred to her.

“Yeah,” she said. Hermione squealed with delight. Several more people looked over, craning their necks in curiosity. “But Hermione,” Ginny whispered, “we haven’t told our families yet, so…”

“Shh!” Hermione said, putting a finger to her lips. “This is so great!”

“Listen,” Nigel said, “we’re having a little gathering at the flat tonight and…”

“We are?” Ginny asked.

“We want to tell everyone together, right?”

Hermione’s face fell. “Oh my gods, I just ruined your surprise, didn’t I?”

“No, Hermione, it’s fine,” Ginny said, trying to save the situation. “Just don’t tell anything to Ron or anyone. Just bring him over tonight at nine.”

That afternoon, Ginny and Nigel spent time at the post office, sending owls to their closest friends and family, alerting them to come to the flat at nine for a big surprise. Nigel also telephoned his parents to give them the same message, and they made a special stop at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to invite Fred and George. One owl post Nigel wasn’t so sure would get a reply was that sent to Severus Snape. On the one hand, he was still waiting for his cousin to apologise for his immature behaviour, but on the other hand, it seemed cruel to leave Snape out when they something so important to announce. Nigel would have felt terrible if he hadn’t given Snape a chance to be a part of this moment.

His parents were very concerned by Nigel’s cryptic telephone call.

“Just come tonight, OK? I’ll have Hermione apparate you over.”

“Nigel, what is going on?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“Never mind that, Mum. Like I said, Hermione will be by just before nine.”

“Nigel!”

“Bye, Mum! See you at nine!”

* * * * *

They all came, well, almost all of them. Draco and a very pregnant Pansy, Ron and Hermione, Harry, Neville and his gran, Fred and George, Remus and Tonks, McDowell, Allegra, Bill and Fleur and the baby, and of course, the grandparents-to-be. Even Percy Weasley showed up with his new girlfriend, as did Blaise Zabini and his partner, Byron. Nigel’s muggle friends, Jimmy and Clive showed up, as did his cousin, Tony. Polly Marks came, as did Hugh Smedley. But no Severus. At least not at first.

But at precisely 9:09, there was a knock at the door. Nigel excused himself from an anxious Neville to answer the door. He hoped. When he opened the door, Nigel barely knew how to react. The imposing figure of Severus Snape stood before him in all his dark grandeur, looking every bit the proud Potions Master that he was. He looked straight down his long, hooked nose at an astonished, relieved Nigel, an imperious air about his every move.

“Severus,” Nigel said in a very businesslike tone.

“Nigel,” Snape replied, equally diplomatic.

“Come in,” Nigel said, stepping back. “For a moment, I was afraid you wouldn’t be able attend.”

“A situation at the school delayed me, in fact. The tenor of your letter this afternoon led me to believe that this was an emergency, and so, I am here.”

Nigel smiled. He took those words as an apology—at least as close to an apology that his cousin could muster up. But as Nigel was about to lead him to the rest of the party, Snape stopped him with a touch on the arm.

“And incidentally,” Snape said in a quiet, strained voice, “my behaviour towards you in recent weeks was deplorable. It shall not be repeated.”

Nigel laughed. “I forgive you, Severus,” he said. “I missed you! I need to talk something over with you in fact, though not today. We have something else to discuss tonight.”

Once everyone was served a glass of wine or ale and were properly seated around the small living room, Ginny and Nigel stood up.

“We have something to tell you all,” Nigel started, “but we didn’t know the best way of saying it…”

Molly Weasley gasped. “Is it about the case?” she asked, troubled.

“They’re not arresting you again, are they?” Neville asked, equally worried.

“No, it’s not about that,” Nigel said. “Look, I think Ginny should be the one to say this.”

“Nigel, what is it?” Mrs. Chaucer asked. “What’s going on?”

Ginny took a deep breath. “Well, Nigel and I found out the other day that…” She took another deep breath. “We’re going to have a baby. I’m pregnant!”

Mrs. Chaucer burst into tears.

Both Mr. Chaucer and Arthur jumped up to embrace Ginny and Nigel, and then each other. The room exploded in excited chatter and shouts of congratulations and laughter and tears. Through the crowd, Nigel could have sworn he spotted Snape flash him a quick, very rare smile, and in the next moment, he was being bombarded by anxious questions from Fred and George and Polly and Hermione. As the party raged on, Nigel found himself in deep conversation with Bill Weasley about the trials and joys of new fatherhood, and with Draco about their now shared worries and anxieties about their impending status as new fathers. In a rare show of warmth, Pansy sat with Ginny and Fleur and exchanged all sorts of ideas and experiences and warnings about pregnancy and childbirth. Snape was suddenly nowhere to be seen, and for that matter, neither was Allegra. Nigel decided not to try and find them.

Instead, he entertained Harry and Ron, both of whom were a bit less effusive than the rest of the party. Nigel wondered uncomfortably if Harry resented him. After all, he had a long history with Ginny, longer than Nigel’s. It wasn’t as if Ginny had left Harry for Nigel, but on the other hand, there was no other man in her life between the two of them. On the other hand, Nigel and Harry had talked this over already and had come to an understanding. Harry had given Nigel his blessing of sorts, leaving Nigel with no reason to feel like an interloper or a cad. But now there was a baby in the picture. Nigel couldn’t help but feel a little guilty—Harry was still single, with no relationship in the works at all.

“You worry too much,” Ginny said to Nigel later, after all the guests had gone home. “That’s your problem. You take everyone else’s problems to heart and then you blame yourself for their misery.”

“Harry’s not miserable.”

“No, I know. You know, you may have been a Ministry tough guy, but you’re just a softy inside.” She kissed his lips, then took out her wand. “Evanesco!” she said, pointing the wand at the mess. In a flash, it all cleared itself away. 

“That makes me feel loads better,” Nigel grumbled. “I’m a big wuss.”

Ginny chuckled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re my big wuss,” she whispered, laughing. “Nigel, you’re not a wuss. You’re a kind, considerate, compassionate and decent man. It’s an honour even to know you, and to have your child inside of me.” She stopped, overwhelmed by emotion.

“I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you, too. I think everything is going to work out just fine.”


	18. Into the Pensieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Before we enter,” McDowell said, “I want to be assured that my client will be cleared of charges against him.”_
> 
> _“If what we see exonerates him,” she said, “then yes, we will clear the charges.”_
> 
> _That sounded promising._
> 
> _“Well, then,” Nigel said. “Let’s get going.”  
> _

Fatherhood. He was going to be a father. He was a father. OK, so the baby was no more than an embryo, a tiny little fetus, but it was a baby nonetheless. Heartbeat at ten weeks. Brainwaves even earlier. Finding a comfortable spot in the uterus, the little Weasley-Chaucer had implanted itself, and begun to form itself and grow its hands and feet and eyes and even little fingerprints, so early in life. It was a true miracle, every fragile, precious stage of growth, and though they were so early in their pregnancy, Nigel knew that this tiny little life was already filled with potential and grace.

The days that followed the baby announcement were sweet and quiet for Nigel. No news about his case from McDowell, but then again, that meant no bad news, either. More sitting on pins and needles, which had become a way of life for Nigel in the last several weeks. The stress had become the norm for him, but on the other hand, it was the sort of sickening stress that threatened his faint hold on life and sanity. It was a little more than just catching the bad guys—this time, it was about proving that he wasn’t the bad guy at all. His memories of Azkaban haunted his waking moments, and he still carried with him the tragic vision of the dying Lucius Malfoy.

At least he had Snape back in his life. That meant more to Nigel than he could possibly express. So it struck him as odd that all of a sudden, Snape carried a pleasant sort of inner smile when Nigel visited him that weekend. Snape mentioned nothing, said absolutely no more about their prior argument, but listened attentively as Nigel told him about his ideas for a potion that could possibly heal Frank Longbottom.

“As far as I know, the only reason why there is no potion that can help him is because nothing has been invented yet,” Nigel said.

“But the muggle substance worked?”

“Better than I ever expected.”

“Then you need to know its properties, exactly how it works on the body.”

“I did some research about a week ago or so. I only just started reading, but that was about wizard remedies. I’ll need to go online to research the muggle stuff.”

“Go on what line?” Snape asked, thoroughly confused.

“Online. On the internet.”

Another blank stare.

“The internet? The World Wide Web?”

Snape shook his head. “Pure twaddle, Chaucer. I have no idea what that is.”

“How can you live in this world and not know about the internet? Even hermits on distant mountains have heard of the internet.”

Snape shrugged. “I suppose I have more important things to do than mess about with muggle tripe.”

Nigel laughed. “You need to get out more, Severus.”

“I am quite occupied as it is, Chaucer, and with more than just schoolwork.” He flicked an eyebrow upward wickedly.

Nigel eyed him carefully. “What have you been up to, Severus?”

Snape cocked his head to one side for a moment. “Oh, this and that.”

Nigel tried to look into his eyes in an attempt at Legilimency. No luck. But then he realised something. Naturally, Snape would block his thoughts from Nigel, because he blocked his thoughts from everyone at all times. That was just how he was. But this time was a little different, or so Nigel felt. Could it be…

“Severus,” he said carefully, “is this about a certain lady we both know?”

Snape took a large crystal beaker out of the cabinet and placed it next to the boiling cauldron. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You can’t bullshit me, Severus. I this about Allegra?”

Snape didn’t reply, but filled the beaker with crushed ice, then took a wooden ladle and dipped it into the cauldron, bringing up a large portion of the blood red potion. Nigel noticed that it smelled like roses.

“What is that you’re brewing anyway?”

“It’s for the Fifth Years.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“About the potion?”

“About Allegra.”

“And that is your business?”

“Yeah! You’re my cousin and I care about you. So yeah, it is my business!”

Snape set down the ladle and faced Nigel. “Well if you must know, Allegra and I had a conversation yesterday, that is, last night.”

“And?” Nigel asked eagerly.

“And, we have decided to resume our relationship,” Snape replied coolly, his features completely serious, as usual.

“And?”

“And what? Really, Nigel, must you know every last detail?”

“Of course!”

“Would you care for me to describe movements and body parts?”

“Hell yeah! That’s the best part.”

Snape scowled. “You’re perverse.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Nigel joked. “Seriously, Severus, I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you, Nigel. I must admit I am quite pleased by the prospect myself.”

“She’s a brave woman, you know, taking you on. And she’s one hell of a great investigator. Better watch out, or she’ll dig up all your dark secrets.”

“She knows my dark secrets, in fact. And I know hers.” Snape continued to ladle the potion into the beaker of ice until it had turned a pale orange and smelled like lemons. “So, you’re bringing another Chaucer into the world, are you?”

“Looks that way.”

“Good. The world needs more Chaucers. They are quite noble, in fact, at least the ones I know.”

“Ginny’s worried about the timing, of course, with this whole case hanging over our heads.”

“Allegra is working with Henry Prewett, as I am sure you know. I believe she is trying to extract a memory from him.”

“To be used in the Pensieve?”

“Presumably.”

“Maybe I should be there.”

Snape shrugged. “Maybe you should. If I recall, you are quite good at interrogation.”

“I was terrible at it, actually. Look, Severus, I’ll have to come back a bit later. I really need your good advice on this potion, alright?”

“Good luck, then.”

“Thanks.”

* * * * *

But Nigel did not find Allegra at her office, nor at McDowell’s office. His next stop was the Ministry, and more specifically, at the Law Enforcement office. Nigel entered the bustling office, looking everywhere for any sign of Allegra or Henry. Most of the officers virtually ignored Nigel’s presence, but soon, he spotted a tuft of bright red hair heading toward him. Nigel smiled and waved.

“Hey, Nigel,” Ron said. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Allegra or Henry Prewett.”

“You just missed them, by about ten minutes. They were in Pierce’s office for a good hour.”

“Were they using a Pensieve?”

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. All I know is that when they left, Allegra looked pretty chuffed and Henry looked pretty worried. Hey, maybe they solved it!”

“I hope so. Any idea where they went?”

“None at all.”

Nigel scowled. “Damn.” He sighed. “I’ll track them down. Thanks, Ron.”

Using a technique he had learned from the Brazilian coven he visited a few years back, Nigel stood on the corner of the street, eyes shut, palms up toward the sky. He breathed deeply, feeling the air and energy around him, visualising Allegra and Henry as he cleared his mind of all other distractions. The energy surged upward and west, stretching in a short breeze only a few blocks away. McDowell’s offices. Nigel quickly apparated there, directly to the front door. Peering through the glass, he could see much activity.

The secretary was more than glad to see Nigel, who had by then become a familiar face around there.

“Hi, honey,” she said, a kittenish lilt to her voice. “They’re all in his office. Go on in.”

“Thanks.”

Nigel knocked softly on McDowell’s door and entered, relieved to see everyone he was looking for sitting around the big desk. McDowell stood up and rushed over to Nigel.

“Look, kid, we’re in the middle of something. I’ve got to have you wait outside. It won’t be good for your case if you’re a part of this, trust me.”

“But are you getting more information from him?”

“Like I said, Nigel, let me call you later, after we’re done here. Please, I’m going to have to insist that you go.”

“Will you tell me…”

“I’ll tell you everything. I promise. I’ll come by later. I’ll bring in some take-away. I’ll bring in a curry.”

There was nothing he could do but go. The very last thing Nigel wanted was to jeopardise his own case, especially if they were starting to get to the bottom of things. As much as he wanted to be free of these accusations, Nigel also wanted the real criminal to be caught and prosecuted. At the same time the thought that Derek Penn might be involved in this was too upsetting for Nigel. He respected Penn as a gifted Healer, and until recently, had no reason to think of him as anything other than a good friend and supportive colleague.

Ginny was home when Nigel arrived, busy at work finishing up an article for the magazine. This week she was reporting on the British quarterfinals for the national title. The winning teams would represent Britain in the World Cup tournament. Nigel busied himself in the kitchen, noticing a large tin of gingersnaps half eaten.

“How’s the morning sickness?” he asked.

“Hell,” came the sour reply from the dining room table. “I missed an editorial meeting today because I was hunched over the u-bend for half an hour.”

Nigel conjured a hand towel, then wet it with warm water. Ringing it out, he carried it into the dining area, where he gently pressed it against her bare arms, and then against the back of her neck. She lifted up her long red hair to let him massage her shoulders.

“That feels good,” she moaned with pleasure.

Nigel bent down and kissed the nape of her neck. She shivered.

“That tickles!” she giggled. “I wouldn’t do that to a woman who’s been sicking up her lunch all day!”

Before they could carry on any more, a knock on the door came loud and hard and rushed. Nigel turned towards the door, and with a wave of his hand, let the door open wide. A harried, half excited McDowell rushed in, carrying a large bag filled with something that smelled like curried chicken and vegetables and rice. Nigel took the bag from him and set out the food in the kitchen whilst McDowell threw off his coat and sat at the table, next to Ginny.

“So what’s going on?” she asked, now as anxious as Nigel.

“Well, quite a lot, actually. Oh thanks, Nigel,” he said as Nigel set a plate filled with food before him.

Suddenly, Nigel realised something. “Ginny, the smell of food isn’t going to bother you, is it?”

“Look, the slightest movement of the earth is going to make me sick these days. Please, eat. I’ll be fine. In fact,” she added, spying the carrots and peppers and onions on McDowell’s plate, “I just might have some of that. I love a good curry.”

“This afternoon, Allegra and I managed to extract a visual memory from Henry Prewett’s mind.” McDowell tapped his jacket. “I’ve got it here, safe in a glass tube. I’ll take this to Pierce’s office tomorrow so we can view it in the Pensieve. It looks very promising. Henry insisted that it will exonerate you entirely, so I just hope he’s right.”

That caused a frisson of excitement in Nigel’s heart. “Gods, I hope so! But wait, I mean, what will this mean for Derek?”

“I don’t know, Nigel. Whatever he may have done, he will have to be held accountable for it.”

“I know,” Nigel replied glumly. “But I wish it were someone else, someone who deserves Azkaban. I know I couldn’t be there when you collected the memory, but can I be there when it’s viewed? I’d like to see it, too. I might be able to shed some light on what’s there, depending on what it is, of course.”

“I don’t have a problem with that, though I don’t know how Louella Pierce will react to that. Let us hope she will be liberal-minded.”

Ginny rolled her eyes at that. “Always the eternal optimist,” she grumbled.

“In the meantime,” McDowell said, “we need to revisit exactly every move you made the night of the murder. Where you went and what you saw is crucial to establishing where you were.”

“But I’ve already told them where I was,” Nigel said. “What more do you need to know?”

“You said you saw Derek Penn outside the hospital, right?”

“Yeah. He was leaving for the night.”

“Are you sure about that?” Ginny asked. “Did you see him walk away?”

Nigel thought a moment. Actually, now that he looked back, he wasn’t so sure. “Well, I saw him outside as I was leaving. I just assumed he was leaving, too. But I can’t think he was arriving at St. Mungo's. At ten at night? He worked that day!”

“Maybe he forgot something,” Ginny offered.

“He didn’t necessarily know that Fowler was still there,” McDowell said. “According to everyone we’ve talked to, Fowler left at approximately the same time every day.”

“Except that he stayed late that night to meet me in his office,” Nigel pointed out.

“Then maybe he surprised Fowler,” Ginny suggested. “Maybe he wanted something from Fowler’s office and when Fowler was unexpectedly there, they fought and then Penn accidentally killed him.”

That didn’t sound right to Nigel. “But what would he want from Fowler’s office?”

“The medical file on Frank Longbottom,” Ginny replied.

“Fowler didn’t keep medical files in his office. Those would have been in the file room, under lock and key.”

“Look, why would he want the file on Frank Longbottom?” McDowell asked.

“To see exactly what Fowler had written,” Ginny said.

Nigel shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “I can’t think that Derek would do that. As much as he was concerned about Frank’s wellbeing, there is no way he would start investigating his medical file. He’s sort of bloke who goes along.”

“Unlike you,” Ginny said.

“I just can’t see him doing anything like that.”

“Then why did he return?” McDowell wondered.

“We’ll just have to ask him personally,” Nigel replied.

* * * * *

There stood the Pensieve, in the centre of Louella Pierce’s desk, ready for whatever memory they had to give it.

“Where did you get this?” Nigel asked.

“We borrowed it from Professor McGonagall, as it happens,” she replied. “There aren’t too many of these in the world, you know. Even we don’t have one, though we should.”

“Before we enter,” McDowell said, “I want to be assured that my client will be cleared of charges against him.”

“If what we see exonerates him,” she said, “then yes, we will clear the charges.”

That sounded promising.

“Well, then,” Nigel said. “Let’s get going.”

He had never been inside the Pensieve before. Harry told him a little about it, but Nigel was hardly prepared for the feeling of freefalling through space until he landed hard in the heart of St. Mungo's. He, McDowell and Pierce looked about for any sign of Henry, but of course, they couldn’t see him, as he had already made himself invisible. Instead, in the darkened ward, patients sleeping all around, they waited for any sign of movement. Before long, they got their wish. Nigel, that is, Past Nigel appeared, troubled, upset, and headed straight for Frank Longbottom’s bed. Present Nigel looked on with fascination as he saw his past self sit with Frank, talking with him gently but passionately. He saw Frank’s anguished response and just as quickly, their words fell silent—the Muffliato charm.

“This is so strange,” he whispered to McDowell.

“Shh!”

Nigel remembered that terrible moment with a new surge of emotion. Tears welled up in his eyes as he watched his past self, trying desperately to calm Frank down, himself at the brink of losing control of his emotions. He saw the pain in Frank’s face, and again he felt the horrible sting of sadness and guilt. And then, Nigel watched as his past self stormed out of the ward, stopping in the corridor to break down in bitter tears. He, McDowell and Pierce could hear his past self weeping openly and miserably. But soon, the sounds of weeping and sniffling stopped, and then there were footsteps going away, down the corridor towards the elevators. And then it was quiet for a moment, that is, until a very agitated Frank jumped out of his bed and stormed up and down the ward, tugging at his hair and swearing something fierce. Nigel had never seen him like this—the sight of it alarmed him deeply.

And then he was gone, out the door and away somewhere. There was a side exit that headed towards the administrative offices on another floor, but none of them could be certain that Frank had gone that way. Nigel wanted to follow Frank, but this was Henry’s memory, and Henry stayed put in his corner of the ward. A few minutes later, Derek Penn showed up, looking concerned and more than a bit tired. Seeing that Frank’s bed was empty, he swore under his breath, then rushed out the same door Frank had taken.

And that was it. Time to leave. The next thing Nigel knew, he was being pulled sharply upward, now airborne again, until at last, he landed on his feet once again in Louella Pierce’s office. The three of them sat together around the desk, deep in thought.

“Naturally, we must talk to Healer Penn,” Pierce said after a moment. “We must know where he went that night, and what he saw.”

“Unless that incriminates him,” McDowell pointed out.

“You think he killed Fowler?” Nigel asked.

“I think that if he didn’t, he knows who did.”

“But do you really think he’d talk?” Nigel wondered. “If I know Derek Penn, I don’t think we’re guaranteed cooperation, I mean, he’s a good sort and all, but very protective of his position and of his profession.”

“And do you really think he’d let you take the fall like this if he’s a good sort?” McDowell asked. “Because so far, that’s how it looks.”

“There must be a reason why,” Nigel said, more hopefully than he felt. He couldn’t stomach the idea that Derek Penn would betray him so deeply unless it were for a very good reason. Surely, Nigel knew him well enough to know that. Didn’t he?

Unlike with Henry Prewett, finding Penn was no difficulty. He was, as usual, at his post at St. Mungo’s, tending to his patients and watching over the most recent team of interns—Amir Kharloubian’s team, as it happened. Nigel thought about everything he was missing, all the precious days and weeks of training he was supposed to have in order to become a Healer. Would he be able to catch up? All this time lost weighed heavily on Nigel’s heart, and more than ever, he longed to return and resume his training. But that would not happen, at least not until he was fully cleared of the charges and the truth ultimately found.

Derek Penn was the key. He had all the answers—Nigel felt sure of that. Penn may have seen the murder and for some reason, was either too afraid or too…something…to come forward. Penn was mature, responsible, level-headed. But could he be guilty, too?

“Well I think he’s a right bastard for leaving you in the lurch like this,” Ginny said bitterly, later that night. “Imagine just allowing someone like you take the rap for this! It’s disgusting! He should be sacked, sued! Prosecuted!”

Nigel nodded sympathetically. “I think I’ll reserve judgement until I hear what he has to say. In the meantime, I’ve been thinking more about this potion for Frank. I’ve been doing some reading and…”

“Listen to yourself!” Ginny shouted. “You can’t possibly be thinking about a bloody potion when your life is on the line!”

“Are you kidding? All I’ve been able to these days is sit around and bloody wait for everyone else to dig up something to get me out of this mess, so forgive me if I decide to do something constructive with my time! I wish I could be working at St. Mungo's, continuing my training, but because of Derek Penn, presumably, I’m stuck!”

He hadn’t expected her to cry. Nigel briefly wondered whether it was hormones that made Ginny suddenly burst into tears so bitterly, but when he saw her looking so anguished and lost, all he could do was gather her in his arms and hold her tight.

“Honey, I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing her cheek. “I didn’t mean to shout like that.”

“It’s not you, Nigel,” Ginny replied in a quavering voice. She blew her nose on Nigel’s handkerchief. “I don’t know, maybe it’s just hormones.”

Nigel laughed. “I think it’s stress. This has been a terrible time, hasn’t it?”

She nodded. “If Tom McDowell does his job right, then maybe things will get better soon.”

Nigel kissed her lips. “And if Derek Penn is willing to tell the truth, then maybe things will get better this week.”


	19. The Protector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The only thing that cheered Nigel up was the sight of Snape, sitting next to Allegra the table, his hand gently on hers. Nigel saw strength in their interaction, even if it wasn’t terribly effusive—Nigel swore he would never see his cousin giddy with love. In a way, he didn’t want to. He always appreciated the quiet dignity with which Snape carried himself. But there were signs of deep affection between them. Allegra would place a hand on his arm, or he would let her eat something off his fork. These were familiar motions that Nigel usually only saw between his parents or between Arthur and Molly. It was lovely to see it between Snape and Allegra. It gave Nigel a little hope._

She insisted on going with him, though Nigel didn’t want her to come.

“It’s too risky, Ginny,” he insisted.

“Risky? Sitting in an office is risky?”

“In your condition, any shock can be risky. You shouldn’t be exposed to too much stress right now.”

Ginny laughed loud and long. “My condition? Nigel! I’ve been apparating every day in my condition, and that’s pretty darn shocking!”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t apparate any more.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” She grabbed her cloak and handbag. Together, they stepped into the corridor, locked the door, and apparated straight to the Ministry, with Ginny leading the way.

They had received a call that morning from McDowell, urging Nigel to hurry to the Ministry as soon as possible. Derek Penn had turned himself in, or so it sounded, and was now ready to speak up. Nigel approached the whole scene with a troubling mixture of emotions, vacillating between wanting to take him in as a sympathetic friend in crisis, and wanting to choke him as a bloody filthy traitor. In a way, Nigel hoped that Penn had killed Fowler—that would be much easier to take than the alternative. He still couldn’t imagine Frank being anywhere near capable of doing such a thing.

But then again, maybe it was someone else. That was a possibility. Nigel thought through the potential details. Perhaps Frank wandered off, distraught, not really knowing where he was going. And perhaps in his wanderings, he ended up where he shouldn’t have been, in the Administrative wing, where he stumbled in on the murder of Orric Fowler. It was entirely possible, Nigel reckoned, that Frank either witnessed the murder itself, or more likely found the body, maybe even seeing the murderer fleeing the scene. Either way, it was clear to Nigel that Penn must have gone in search of Frank and found him after the murder occurred—that is, unless Penn committed the murder. But Frank couldn’t have caught him, because Frank left the ward before Penn even arrived—that is, unless Penn killed Fowler first, then went to the ward and, finding Frank gone, went back, hoping that Frank didn’t witness anything criminal.

It could be. Anything was possible. Well, almost anything.

Arriving at the Law Enforcement office, Nigel met with McDowell and Allegra in the corridor to go over the details.

“So what’s going on?” Nigel asked anxiously. “Was Derek arrested?”

“No, not arrested,” McDowell said, glancing over at Allegra. “Not yet anyway.”

“I went to see him, actually, after Henry Prewett gave his statement,” she explained. “I told Healer Penn that it was in his best interest to tell the authorities what he knows.”

“And how did he take that?” Nigel asked skeptically.

“Not too well,” she replied. “In fact, he was downright hostile, at least at first. But then I explained to him that someone might get the wrong idea if he didn’t say something, and that he would be letting you down by allowing you to continue to take the blame for something you clearly didn’t do. That part seemed to move his conscience.”

Nigel sighed. “And here he is at last. Has he already spoken to Borisov and Pierce?”

“Actually, he’s meeting with his attorney right now,” McDowell said.

“Penn’s no fool,” Nigel noted.

“Why should he need a lawyer?” Ginny asked.

“Because he covered up a crime,” Allegra replied. “He’s protecting a killer or at least he was at the time. And he was ready to let your husband take the fall. He’s in a lot of trouble.”

They gathered in a small interview room—Nigel, Ginny, McDowell, Allegra, Pierce, Borisov, and of course a very pale, grave Derek Penn and his lawyer. Nigel found it incredibly difficult to look Penn in the eye. His anger and resentment was too intense for him to do anything other than look at the tabletop or at McDowell. From the corner of his eye, Nigel stole quick glances at the much thinner, pale Derek Penn—he looked suddenly older, worn down, harried and troubled. Nigel felt sick.

“Healer Penn is here to cooperate with the authorities,” the lawyer said.

“Finally,” Ginny grumbled. Penn became even paler.

“And he wishes to set the record straight,” the lawyer continued, glaring briefly at Ginny. “But we also want some assurances from the Wizengamot.”

“That all depends on what he has to say,” Borisov replied. “If he can give us the killer, then we’ll consider talking to the Wizengamot, but until then, there’s not much we can do. He all but framed an innocent man for a murder.”

“You are aware that your client faces some serious charges because of that?” Pierce asked harshly. “He stands to do some hard time in Azkaban, in fact.”

“He understands that,” the lawyer replied. “That is why he has come forward today, in order to come to some agreement.”

“Right then,” Pierce said. “Let’s hear it, Healer Penn. Just remember that you are under caution, so choose your words carefully.”

Penn nodded. “First of all,” he said quietly, “Nigel Weasley-Chaucer did not commit this crime. I saw him outside St. Mungo's, and then he apparated to Azkaban.”

“Thank you, Derek,” Nigel said gratefully.

“Why were you there at all that night?” Borisov asked. “Weren’t you at work that day?”

“I left early that day for an appointment with an estate agent,” Penn said. “My wife and I just bought a new house. I had to spend a few hours in the agent’s office doing paperwork. We finished just around eight, and then my wife and I went for a late supper at the Leaky Cauldron. The proprietor can corroborate that. I left just before ten and apparated back to St. Mungo’s, to pick up some patient files that I wanted to study over night. That’s when I saw Nigel, outside. We spoke briefly, and then he disapparated and I went to my office.”

“Did you go directly there?” Nigel asked, but then he blushed, realising that he wasn’t the interrogator. “Oh, sorry.”

“Why don’t you let the professionals ask the questions, alright, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, alright?” Pierce commented, an officious air in her voice.

“He is a professional,” Ginny seethed, “if you recall.”

“It’s okay, hon,” Nigel said, patting Ginny’s hand. “Sorry, I’ll just shut up now.”

“To answer Nigel’s question,” Penn said, “I meant to go directly there, but I wanted to check on Frank Longbottom first.”

“Why?” Borisov asked.

“Because we were about to alter his treatment, and I was worried about him,” Penn replied. “I felt like I wanted to talk to him a little, like Nigel did, but when I went into the ward, I saw immediately that his bed was empty. I admit I panicked. I had no idea where he had gone, or how long he had been gone. I looked all over the ward, but he was nowhere to be found. I was positively frantic! I checked the exam rooms, the bathrooms, the showers, everywhere.”

“Did you call for assistance?” Pierce asked.

“It was late at night.”

“So no.”

“No.” He turned even paler than before.

“A missing patient, and you didn’t call for any help?” Pierce asked.

“I already said I didn’t,” Penn shot back. “I took the stairs to the next floor—the door leads straight through the Administrative wing, and I saw a light in Fowler’s office. I also heard huge, heaving sobs, and I knew something terrible had happened. My heart sank as I neared the door.”

Nigel shut his eyes, fearing the very worst.

“He was standing there, over Orric’s dead body, just standing and weeping and mourning what he had just done. All I could do was just take him out of the office by the arm and take him back to his bed, upstairs.”

“Oh gods,” Nigel whispered, grief-stricken. “Frank?”

Penn lowered his eyes.

“How do you know?” Nigel asked. “How do you know it wasn’t someone else?”

Penn looked at Nigel sympathetically. “I knew, Nigel. If he hadn’t killed Orric, why would he be standing over his body, weeping like that?”

That was true, Nigel thought. “Maybe he was just in shock over finding a dead body,” he offered.

Penn shook his head. “We both know that isn’t true. He might run or, if in his right mind, might call out for help, but stand there and weep? No. A good man like Frank would naturally feel guilty over such an act, even if he is insane.”

“This is all my fault,” Nigel said. His head ached terribly.

“Of course it’s not,” McDowell replied.

“No, it is, Tom. I should have just let him alone, left him as he was. Gods, I’m so stupid!”

“You were only trying to help him,” Penn said.

“But not turn him into a killer!” Nigel protested. “This is awful!”

“You didn’t turn anyone into a killer, Nigel,” Penn said.

“But hang on, did you actually see him do it?” Nigel asked. “Couldn’t it be that he found Fowler like that?”

Penn shook his head morosely, then reached into the inner pocket of his robes, pulling out a phial containing a silvery substance. Nigel knew exactly what it was, as did Allegra and of course, Pierce and Borisov. He handed it to Pierce.

“I think you should have a look at this memory,” Penn said. “It pretty much clarifies what happened.”

“Wait,” Nigel said. “We have to consider that if Frank did it, he clearly wasn’t in his right mind, I mean, he’s bloody insane!”

“Was he?” Borisov wondered. “I thought your muggle remedy was working. You said so yourself. In fact, you’ve kept insisting that you want to continue the treatment, correct?”

They had him on that. Nigel struggled for a response. Certainly he wanted Frank to regain his sanity, but at the price of his freedom? What was the point of regaining his mind, only to be sent off to Azkaban to lose it all over again? At least he was safe at St. Mungo’s, protected and cared for. At Azkaban he wouldn’t even get basic health care. And he definitely wasn’t strong enough to withstand the dark presence of the Dementors.

“I don’t think we should see it,” Nigel said.

“Well that is really not your business,” Borisov shot back.

“Frank was my patient!” Nigel retorted. “What happens to him is very much my business!”

“Correction,” Borisov said. “He was your patient. Are you not on suspension?”

“Don’t you tell me he’s not my patient!” Nigel shot back, indignant.

“Nigel,” McDowell said warningly.

“What? This is outrageous! They can’t just set him up like this!”

“But if he’s guilty…” McDowell started.

“He is not in his right mind! He was improving, but he was nowhere near completely sane! Anyone who spent more than five minutes with him would figure that out, Healer or not.”

“That will be for our department to decide,” Pierce said.

“Right, and your department are experts in the Healing arts?” Nigel sneered. McDowell threw him a warning glance.

Undaunted, Pierce stood up portentously. “You are free to go, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, and with our great and sincere apologies. You have been through a terrible ordeal in these last several weeks, and we regret what we have put you through. It is now clear to us that you are not guilty of anything, and we have decided to drop the charges.” She put out her hand, presumably to shake Nigel’s.

To his utter confusion and frustration, Nigel suddenly found that he couldn’t move. This should have been the moment he was waiting for after so many sleepless nights and worries and tears and yet, here he was, unable to enjoy the moment. All he could think of was the memory of the dying Lucius Malfoy and so many of the other haunted, gaunt prisoners at Azkaban. He imagined Frank there, babbling some nonsense words, unable to reason through the terror he was experiencing. He imagined Frank looking so lost and forsaken, wondering when he would get his muggle potion again, wondering where Nigel had gone.

* * * * *

Nigel couldn’t eat much of the sumptuous feast laid before him that night at the Burrow. The Weasleys had gathered everyone, families and friends, to celebrate Nigel’s liberation, but Nigel was the only one who didn’t feel like celebrating. For that matter, neither did a rather subdued Neville, who sat on a hard chair at the end of the long dining table, not drinking the rest of his wine.

The only thing that cheered Nigel up was the sight of Snape, sitting next to Allegra the table, his hand gently on hers. Nigel saw strength in their interaction, even if it wasn’t terribly effusive—Nigel swore he would never see his cousin giddy with love. In a way, he didn’t want to. He always appreciated the quiet dignity with which Snape carried himself. But there were signs of deep affection between them. Allegra would place a hand on his arm, or he would let her eat something off his fork. These were familiar motions that Nigel usually only saw between his parents or between Arthur and Molly. It was lovely to see it between Snape and Allegra. It gave Nigel a little hope.

So the very last thing Nigel wanted to discuss was the fate of Frank Longbottom. He would have preferred to drink his memory away on that score, for all eternity. But that would be too easy. No sooner had Molly vanished the dinner plates away and produced a table full of desserts, then Snape brought up the potion.

“Have you started it yet?” he asked Nigel. All ears waited for a response, especially Neville’s.

“Actually, I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think I’m going to do it after all,” Nigel confessed.

“What? Why not?” Neville asked, a bit dejected. “I thought you were going to go for it.”

“But if I do, and if it works—and it likely will—then your father is going to find himself in a terrible amount of trouble. That’s why.”

“But he should be able to choose, right?” Neville asked, troubled by Nigel’s response.

“You know what will happen, Neville. They’ll likely prosecute him for murder and send him off to Azkaban!”

“You don’t know that, Nigel,” Hermione said.

“Oh come on, Hermione, we know how things are!” Nigel retorted.

“He’s got a point, you know,” Harry said. “The Ministry doesn’t exactly have a history of prudential behaviour.”

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” she snapped. “You work for the Ministry, if I remember correctly! More than half the people in this room work for the Ministry!”

“That doesn’t mean it’s perfect,” Arthur pointed out. “We all know the Ministry has made some terrible mistakes in its history—the arrest of Stan Shunpike comes to mind. But Nigel, that doesn’t mean they will so rash with Frank.”

“Absolutely,” McDowell agreed. “There is no reason to think that they will just chuck him into prison. There is due process, even in the wizarding world. The potion might end up being very helpful.”

“Why?” Nigel asked. “So he can confess and go to prison? He was sane, but he wasn’t that sane. The last time I treated him, he was sort of like a child. He made a certain amount of sense but not that much sense. Certainly not enough to be considered competent.”

“You said he was speaking in axioms or something, right, sort of like a sage or a savant?” Ginny asked.

“Yeah, these little sayings he’d probably read somewhere in his life. Stuff like _might makes right_ , or _to thine own selfe be true._ I suppose there was some sort of logic in them, but they didn’t make much sense to most.”

“If you give him the potion,” McDowell said, “we can figure out just how rational he really was, and is. Then we’ll know how to proceed with him.”

“No, Tom, I won’t. I won’t expose him to that. I can’t do that to him!”

Snape chuckled at that. “It seems to me, Nigel, that you have been the one wanting to treat Frank Longbottom as an equal, as a man and not a baby.”

“That’s not the same! Not now!”

“Nigel, it is the same!” Snape said. “Frank made a choice! If you want to treat him as an adult, then you have to honour his choice, no matter what that might mean for him. And if it means prison, then he has to take responsibility for the choices he made.”

“Oh wait just one minute!” Nigel shot back. “First of all, we don’t know what state of mind he was in when he did the killing. I mean, maybe it was a crime of passion or something!”

“Which means he can possibly avoid Azkaban,” McDowell pointed out. “We can argue diminished capacity, which is very true, in spite of any mental health he regained when you treated him.”

“He’s right, Nigel,” Hermione said.

“But that’s a risk I don’t want to take with him. What if it falls through? He’s better off where he is, and as he is.”

“You can’t be serious, Nigel!” Hermione exclaimed. “He’s better off insane, not knowing anyone, barely knowing himself?”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this out of you, Nigel,” Snape said angrily. “Sane or not, he killed a man.”

“So did you!” Nigel replied furiously.

An unheard gasp and an uncomfortable silence fell about the room as Snape goggled at him for a moment, stunned, stung by Nigel’s sharp words. Draco jumped to his feet, mutinous. Keeping his control, a very pale Snape took a deep breath and continued. “That is not fair, Nigel. Our situations were completely different. Frank killed for an entirely discrete purpose, and you know that.” He shut his eyes briefly. “But I made a choice, too, and I had to be open to the consequences of that choice. The Ministry would have had every right to imprison me.”

“Nigel,” McDowell said, “Severus is absolutely right. If we can give Frank the potion, then we can talk to him in a rational way. We can start to get the real truth about the situation and possibly keep him out of Azkaban.”

Nigel rubbed his forehead in frustration. He could see their point, but still… “We’re all assuming that I can make a potion and then when I give it to him, it’ll just work like that! Look, we have no idea how long it will take for the potion to work, if I can even make it at all. It might take five years for something like that to take full effect, I mean, Frank is a deeply damaged individual! No potion, no matter how good it might be, can just instantly restore him to full health. In fact, Frank may never really be normal in his life. We have to be ready for that.”

Ginny eyed him. “So does that mean you’re willing to make the potion?”

Nigel bit his lip. “I don’t think it’s my choice to make.” He looked over at Neville, who was listening intently to the entire debate. “Neville, this decision belongs to you. Frank is your father, and you have a right to decide about his treatment.”

All eyes now fell on Neville, who sat and pondered deeply what he was about to say. “I want my father back,” he finally said.

“But Neville, you know that he might never be what one would term normal,” Nigel pointed out. “Do you really think it’s in his best interest to do this, considering the potential consequences?”

“I agree with Professor Sn…that is, Severus.” Neville turned a deep shade of pink.

“Even though this could send him to Azkaban?” Nigel asked.

“I agree with Severus,” Neville repeated. “It’s time to treat my father like an adult, like you’ve been saying all along.”

“There is no guarantee that Frank will ever be prosecuted, Nigel,” McDowell said. “And in the meantime, you have the power to improve his quality of life.”

But Nigel scowled. “There’s one more problem. I’m still suspended from St. Mungo's. Even if I make the potion, I can’t give it to him unless I get my post back.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem now that you’ve been cleared,” Harry said.

“I don’t know about that,” Nigel replied. “There’s still the issue of insubordination, regardless of the murder of Orric Fowler. I have to answer for that.”

“But surely you can prove that you were acting in Mr. Longbottom’s best interests, right?” Ron asked.

“I hope so. I hope they’ll listen to me for once.”

Hermione frowned. “Nigel, you won’t tell them about what Frank did, will you?”

“Of course not!” Nigel exclaimed. “I may be impulsive and arrogant sometimes, but I’m not mad!”

Snape laughed. “At last, the truth comes out, doesn’t it, Chaucer?”

“By the way, Severus, I’m sorry I made that remark to you. It was a cheap shot.”

“When will you learn, Chaucer?” Snape replied coolly. “Our relationship is nothing unless one of us has something to apologise for. I’m just relieved that it was your turn this time, because usually it’s me.”

“It’s I, actually,” Hermione corrected him.

“Know-it-all,” Snape grumbled, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Bloody Gryffindors.”

* * * * *

Was it ethical? Should he really do it? The question troubled Nigel deeply. As Ginny slept soundly next to him in their bed, Nigel found he couldn’t close his eyes, taunted by too many hard choices he felt he had to make. As much as he wanted Frank to get better, he still couldn’t quite get beyond the possibility that Frank could be arrested and prosecuted. But perhaps Snape was right—perhaps Nigel was being selfish. Perhaps it really was a good idea. Frank would—or could—get his mind back, maybe even have a real relationship with Neville. And maybe he could eventually be released from St. Mungo’s after so many years of being incapacitated.

He got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of cold milk, a practice he picked up on a trip to the United States a while back. An American acquaintance once told him that milk was a natural sleep aid—Nigel hoped she was right. The war in his heart raged out of control. Part of him was already conjuring plans for possible ingredients for the potion, but the other part of him kept shouting stop. He began to wonder about himself, about his abilities. He even began to wonder whether he was really cut out to be a Healer.

Nigel finished the last of the milk and rinsed out the glass. “I’ve got to grow up,” he muttered to himself.


	20. Facing the Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For days, Nigel struggled to make sense of the entire situation. In the meantime, he received a total of eleven more letters of apology from various Ministry officials and departments, including Louella Pierce and even the Supreme Mugwump. They all said basically the same thing: “We’re sorry. Forgive us. Don’t sue us.” Well, they didn’t use those exact words, but that was the basic gist of it all. Nigel wanted to feel more secure now, more assured of his future. And in truth, he felt fairly certain that he would be cleared of any charges by the governors of St. Mungo's. So why did he feel so awful?_

Cleared! Exonerated! Of course, Nigel knew this already, but when he received a very apologetic, official letter from the Ministry two days later, he was overjoyed all over again. The news couldn’t have come at a better time for Nigel. For weeks on end, he had prepared and worried and rehearsed everything he wanted to tell the Wizengamot as he sat before them on trial.

And then it was over, without a trial at all, so suddenly quickly he wondered why he had bothered to trouble his mind so much.

So simple. A misunderstanding, a breakdown of communication, a tragic rush to judgement. So sorry.

But…

How could he have done something like this? Frank? Crazy, loony Frank? A calculated killer? It made no sense. Nigel knew, of course, that Frank was no stranger to violence. Being an Auror, violence was a part of the job. Nigel knew that very well. But really, in his state right now, was Frank capable? OK, so he might have done it, but he couldn’t possibly have known what he was doing. That was ludicrous. Right?

For days, Nigel struggled to make sense of the entire situation. In the meantime, he received a total of eleven more letters of apology from various Ministry officials and departments, including Louella Pierce and even the Supreme Mugwump. They all said basically the same thing: “We’re sorry. Forgive us. Don’t sue us.” Well, they didn’t use those exact words, but that was the basic gist of it all. Nigel wanted to feel more secure now, more assured of his future. And in truth, he felt fairly certain that he would be cleared of any charges by the governors of St. Mungo's. So why did he feel so awful?

He knew. Nigel knew all too well. The worst part of it was that he was not able even to visit Frank, even for five minutes. He tried to distract himself, dive into his new role as father of an unborn witch or wizard—he considered nurseries and which room in the flat they would transform into a nursery. Nigel even thought about baby shoes. When would a baby start to wear shoes? When would he or she actually need them? And as for baby bottles…well, he supposed he would leave that sort of thing to Ginny.

But should he? After all, this was the twenty-first century, where predefined gender roles were a thing of the past. Perhaps Nigel really did have to concern himself with baby bottles and the temperature of milk and how often to diaper a baby and when he should teach it its letters. And what if he or she had strong magical abilities? That was something new for Nigel—he had grown up as a muggle until he was sixteen. What did he know of magical toddlers? He wondered what sort of a father Frank hoped to be, before it was all destroyed by Bellatrix Lestrange.

And then Nigel had another thought.

Who witnessed the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom? He felt sure that Bellatrix was not alone in the place where she did such terrible things to them. Nigel wondered if Lord Voldemort was present, or Lucius…or Snape. He hated to ask such a question, especially after they had so recently mended their rocky relationship. On the other hand, getting another account of what happened might help Nigel ask Frank the right questions. On the other hand, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear the answer, especially if Snape was there. And if Snape was there, why had he never talked about it? Perhaps he did to Dumbledore, but he wondered if anyone else knew the truth. Naturally, asking Alice was no good—she was in worse shape than her husband. And Nigel hedged at asking Neville’s gran. It was highly unlikely that she knew specifics of the torture her son endured.

On the other hand, perhaps someone did tell her. It was a cruel thought, but not out the scope of possibility. But no, Nigel thought. He wouldn’t ask her. Not that. After all, she was an old lady, and the last thing Nigel wanted was to reopen old wounds just at the end of a person’s life. It didn’t seem fair. The whole thing wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Frank had to live in a prison of insanity for twenty years, or that Neville had to grow up without parents and live with the grief of their loss his whole life.

For that reason, Nigel knew that making the potion was the right thing to do. Though it pained him to admit it, Snape’s admonition was right. So it was back to the Archives, then, to do more research. He hated leaving Ginny like this, considering her condition, but then again, she was off to Switzerland to cover the Geneva versus Lugano match. Her morning sickness finally under control, Ginny insisted that she could continue to work, until her boss or the signs from the baby told her to stop.

Nigel quickly found himself buried under piles of books, charts and all sorts of other research, taking volumes of notes, all of which he took back home with him. At home, Nigel would lay out all his notes in categories, then pore over them in groups and take further notes. For a few weeks, none of it made much sense, but one ingredient that kept coming back was Ginkgo. Nigel looked into the magical properties of Ginkgo and, to his amazement and relief, discovered that it worked to stimulate the extremities, particularly the brain. That sounded perfect. But of course, Nigel couldn’t just give Frank an infusion of Ginkgo. As he read on about the herb, he saw that its properties could be enhanced by several complimentary ingredients and a careful brewing process that would take exactly five days. The brewing process must end on the night of a full moon, and the following morning, he reckoned, it should be strained, dried and crushed into a fine powder, which would then be put into capsules.

All of that looked good on parchment, but in reality, Nigel would have to try it out. He would have to hope that he was right.

* * * * *

Nigel didn’t realise how bad the potion could potentially smell. He knew very well that not all potions smelled wonderful, but he always managed to make his own creations a little less unpleasant than the usual stuff. When he first learned the art of potion-making from his cousin, Nigel also learned to put up with its more unpleasant aspects, smells included. Naturally, nothing was guaranteed, but he did his best. This time, Nigel knew that Frank would not take anything that smelled remotely strange or foreign to what he already knew. He was in no condition for such adventures. Therefore, he resolved that whatever he did, it had to be right in terms of taste, smell and appearance if it were to be fully effective.

The task of making the potion was another matter. Before he could even begin the project, Nigel wanted some assurances from St. Mungo's that the potion would actually be used, and that he would be reinstated so that he could begin the treatment. Both he and Ginny figured that being reinstated would be no problem, that is, until Nigel faced the panel in early February. The panel consisted of the entire Board of Governors, plus all the heads of departments, and the new Chief of Staff, Jude Rosen. In truth, it should have been Derek Penn, but of course, he was now in deep trouble with the Ministry. Nigel had only met Rosen once, and that was several months ago. He didn’t remember much about him, other than that he was very tall and very large and had a bushy white moustache and a shiny bald head. Other than that, Nigel knew little about the man. He could only hope that the man would be reasonable.

Nigel could feel the beads of sweat form on his forehead as he stood before the panel. He was not allowed to have any representation whatsoever, expected to stand up for himself and relate the details of his case on his own. Nigel missed McDowell’s strong presence in that moment, wishing that he could lean on him one more time. But that was impossible.

The meeting was more uncomfortable than Nigel had anticipated. He was tired of panels and meetings and severe, irritated people scrutinising his every movement. Somehow, Nigel expected that as soon as he explained his methods and motives, then all would be understood and forgiven. But it wasn’t so quick as that. The panel looked far too severe, more judgemental than perhaps was necessary. Their questions were sharp and straight to the point.

“Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Rosen began, “we are undoubtedly here to seek reinstatement, are you not?”

“Exactly so, sir,” Nigel replied politely.

“Then you won’t mind answering our questions?”

“Of course not, sir. Anything I can do to clarify the situation.”

“Perfect,” Rosen replied, satisfied. “First of all, we are glad to hear that you have been cleared of the criminal charges against you, though we are very distressed over the behaviour of others involved.”

Nigel swallowed hard, thinking mainly of what Frank might face. “I am equally distressed, sir.”

“Healer Penn has unfortunately been removed from his post, in light of his actions, and…”

No! That didn’t seem fair! “But sir,” Nigel replied, interrupting the Chief of Staff, “surely he was acting to protect Mr. Longbottom!”

“That may be, but he went about it the wrong way,” Rosen sad sympathetically. “Mr. Weasley-Chaucer, what if he hadn’t come forward? What if no one came forward? Where would you be right now?”

“But he did come forward. Both Healer Penn and Henry Prewett came forward. That’s why I’m here and not in prison.” He knew what Rosen meant, but all the same…

“But let us set that aside for now,” Rosen said dismissively. “The onus is on you to explain your reckless behavior regarding Mr. Frank Longbottom.”

Nigel started at the word “reckless,” but decided not to lose his temper—now was not the time for that. “Sir, I…” he began.

“You do realise what you have done to Mr. Longbottom, do you not?”

“Sir?”

“I understand that you wanted to help him, and I honour that, however, you also placed him in a situation that he clearly could not handle.”

“Sir, if Chief Fowler hadn’t interfered…”

“And if you had followed proper protocol, you might have had a chance to discuss the matter with Chief Fowler or with another Healer. Instead, you went out on your own and used Mr. Longbottom as a guinea pig.”

Nigel frowned. “With all due respect, sir,” he began, desperately holding on to his temper, “that was never my intention. I entered into this project with the only desire to use medicine to help a patient who clearly was in need, but who, for some reason I can’t begin to understand, was more or less allowed to linger in his current state for the last twenty years.”

“This is no time for rudeness, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” one of the Governors said sharply.

“No, no, Glenda, that’s alright,” Rosen replied. “He has a right to defend himself, even if he’s wrong.”

“Wrong, sir?” Nigel asked, taken aback.

“Yes, wrong,” Rosen said flatly. “I understand that you are used to having quite a lot of power, but that does not change the fact that you are an intern. You are clearly extraordinarily talented and show tremendous promise, but what I’m talking about is an attitude problem.”

He sounds like Fowler, Nigel thought bitterly. “Sir,” Nigel said, “I want to apologise for my behaviour. In hindsight, I can see that you are right.”

“I’m glad to hear it, young man,” Rosen replied, a broad grin on his face. “One important part of our profession is looking beyond the science. We have to look at the patient’s best interests, and not just his immediate health. We have to look at all the implications of any course of treatment before we enter into it, which I don’t think you did. And, we also have to keep in mind the chain of command as it were.”

“That sounds very military,” Nigel noted.

“In a way, it is,” Rosen replied. “Our patients’ lives are in our hands, and that is a very precious thing, as I am sure you know. The chain of command protects the patients, but it also protects you. It is crucial to have a good rapport with your supervisor, and to feel free to discuss things and ideas. If you can do that, then you will be just fine. But go off on your own, no matter how right you think you are, and the only thing you will accomplish is to incur the wrath of the person who is responsible for the treatments you administer. Do I make myself clear?”

Nigel took a deep breath. His hands shook slightly as he prayed silently that he wouldn’t say the wrong thing. “Yes, sir, you do. I thought I had considered everything, but I guess I didn’t. I only thought that pursuing this course of treatment had the potential to bring Frank out of his current state, and until Chief Fowler stopped me, it really was working.” He was starting to feel like broken record, having to repeat his story over and over again. Would he ever be left in peace?

“An experienced Healer would have considered all the ramifications of such an action. And furthermore, an experienced Healer would have discussed such a drastic matter with more than one other person. Considering the major implications of the treatment you gave to Mr. Longbottom, and that you are an intern and not a licensed Healer, you displayed a dangerous lack of prudence by going ahead with this project as you did. That is the main issue here, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer. Had it gone wrong, you and the entire hospital could rightly have been sued for malpractice.”

What could he say? It was true. As well-intentioned as he was, Nigel had to admit that Rosen had a point. But then he had another thought. Wasn’t this the very thing that Fowler had said? Wasn’t this the same old argument? And yet, Nigel felt ready to accept it from Rosen whereas with Fowler it had been entirely different. Alright, so Rosen was more polite, more supportive in his demeanour than Fowler had been. Didn’t that make a difference? To his shame, Nigel had to admit that while it did make a difference, perhaps it shouldn’t have. What else was Fowler doing but his job? The thought gave Nigel a headache.

He would have to wait several days until the panel had come to a decision. Rosen assured him they would speak with him soon, but not before they had gone over every single detail extremely carefully. That didn’t make Nigel feel much better, but there wasn’t much else he could do. In the meantime, therefore, Nigel took the opportunity to work more on the potion, just in case Rosen and the Governors saw fit to let him back. Nigel couldn’t get their stern faces out of his mind and memory, and he wondered why no one else spoke a single word, even bothered to ask Nigel a few questions. Certainly, one Governor had given him a quick little reprimand, but everyone else seemed content to let Rosen do the fighting for them.

* * * * *

Just who was this Jude Rosen bloke anyway?

According to Draco, whom Nigel visited at Malfoy Manor the next day, he was a longtime Healer, but one who had a private practice in Diagon Alley, catering mainly to wealthy witches with feminine problems. He also delivered babies, which piqued Nigel’s interest, and as far as Draco knew, was a brilliant Healer with extensive knowledge of the Healing arts in general. And because he ran his own business for such a long time, Rosen had become something of an expert in management and in dealing with employees. That gave Nigel some confidence.

“Do you think he’ll let me back in?” he asked Draco, eating yet another ham and cream cheese sandwich.

“If he doesn’t, he’s a fool. And there is no way I would let a fool anywhere near my child or my wife.”

“So is he your Healer?”

“He’s the man who delivered me—but don’t fret, Weaselby-Chaucer, he also has clients who aren’t recovering Death Eaters. His business partner, his son, actually, is our personal Healer.”

“How is Pansy, by the way? How much longer do you have before little Malfoy monster arrives?”

“There’s a strong chance the baby will have my birthday, June 4.”

“That would be really cool.”

Draco didn’t seem too pleased. “And guess whose birthday will get more attention?” he grunted.

Nigel laughed. “You are such a prat, Malfoy. It’s a wonder Pansy puts up with you at all. I fear for your child.”

“It’s a wonder I put up with her! The baby is going to lucky not to be a psychological mess,” Draco shot back. He poured out brandy for both of them as they sat in the library at Malfoy Manor. “You know what Pansy did the other day? We were going out to dinner with Zabini and whoever he’s shagging right now, and I dropped a glass of port on the floor. The whole thing shattered, and not only did it splatter the bottom of my robes, but when I moved, I ended up cutting my foot on a shard of glass!”

“Ouch! Sounds painful!” Nigel tried hard not to laugh at his friend’s plight.

“So there I am, bleeding and all, and she just looks at me and says, I had better not get any blood on the Persian rug!”

Nigel laughed. “Well, mate, you married her.”

“I should have thought before I knocked her up.”

Nigel laughed again. “Come on, Draco, you know you love her. It’s been you and she all the time, all your lives.”

Draco’s face fell. “Can I confide in you, Nigel?” he asked quietly.

Nigel’s heart skipped a beat, knowing he was going to hear something unpleasant. “You’re not thinking of…”

“No, not that. Not this week, anyway. But there have been times.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows in alarm. “I thought she existed only to bow and scrape before you.”

“That got old after a while, actually. Do I sound mad?”

“No. Well OK, yes, you do. If I said it, that would be different.”

But Draco didn’t laugh. Nigel worried. “When you and Ginny disagree, what do you do?”

Nigel scowled. “We usually shout it out, and then get over it and have a shag. It’s no good bottling up emotions, mate.”

“Yeah, but in Pansy’s condition, I’m not so sure that a shouting match is a good idea. I mean, she’s talking about nannies and nurses so that once she delivers, she and I can just go off on some sort of Grand Tour and leave the kid at home!”

“And you don’t want to do that?”

“A month after I was born, my parents left on a four month tour of the Americas and left me with nannies and the House Elves. And then when they came back, they were off again to India! They didn’t stop traveling until I was four years old, and I rarely got to go with them.”

“And that’s what Pansy wants to do?”

“She was raised the same way as I was, so yeah.”

“Just don’t go, Draco. It’s pretty simple. If you want to stay at home and bond with your child, then do it. I can’t think of anything better. My mom stayed at home all the time and my dad was home almost every evening.”

“And you’re normal. I don’t want my child growing up like I did, where there was this sort of disconnect with my parents. It’s not fair.”

That didn’t sound quite right. “I thought you were close to your parents.”

“I was, I mean, in a strange sort of way. Father was sort of like my boss, and Mum was my caretaker.”

Nigel laughed. “Come on, Draco, she was more than that. She loves you very much!”

Draco nodded. “I know. Still, it was weird growing up in that environment. She’d coddle me and sort of pet me and give me everything I wanted materially, but then she just take off for a week or two weeks or a month on some shopping expedition, and just leave me behind. It was really sad.”

“It’s no wonder you were such a spoilt brat,” Nigel said, half joking.

“True. Of course, she always did bring me back a lot of stuff. Guilt can get rather expensive, though.” Draco poured out more brandy for them. “So when do you hear about your job?”

Not soon enough, Nigel reasoned. After a week of waiting, he grew more and more anxious about his fate. He was sure they would reinstate him, but on the other hand, Nigel had learned all too well not to rely on anything that might seem too certain or too easy. He felt tempted to call them, but of course, they had no telephones, so that was out of the question. Then he thought of sending an owl post, just to check up on his status. But then he thought again. Nigel didn’t want to aggravate the very people who held his future in their hands. He would just have to exercise more patience. And in truth, he had plenty to do with his time.

Baby plans, potion plans, new worries about Draco and Pansy. Nigel delved into anything he could, just to get his mind off of the decision of the panel. In truth, he had come up with something rather amazing, or so he thought, for the baby. He had drawn up plans for a baby crib that would replicate the movements of the mother—rocking, cuddling and so forth, giving Ginny a chance to sleep through the night and giving their baby a sense of comfort and stability. Naturally, Nigel hadn’t yet built the crib—they had months to go, lots of time before they had to decide on anything about exactly where to put the baby or what sort of crib or bassinet or bed it would need. Perhaps by then they would be in a house. And if Nigel lost his job, perhaps they would be in a one-room flat, or perhaps back at Malfoy Manor, listening through the walls as Draco and Pansy argued and bickered all night long.

Nigel sighed heavily. He just had to get his position back. Too many people relied on that, and not just Frank Longbottom. He had Ginny to think about. He had his own baby to think about, and whatever children followed. There was stability to consider, and a healthy future for his entire family—no longer was it just about his own advancement or his own private interest. Greater things were at stake now.

Nigel simply had to be reinstated.


	21. Special Delivery!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nigel pulled on his t-shirt and a pair of sweats and stumbled to the front door to see who the hell was making all the racket. He peered through the peephole in the door, only to see a frantic, agitated Draco Malfoy ready to knock again. Nigel threw open the door and pulled Draco inside._
> 
> _“What the hell?” Nigel snapped. “Do you know what time it is?”_
> 
> _“Nigel, I need you right now!” Draco said. His face was pale with fright._
> 
> _“Me? Why?”_
> 
> _“Pansy!”_

There would be conditions—strict conditions—to Nigel’s reinstatement. First, he would have to be closely supervised by none other than Jude Rosen himself. Nigel would have to report to Chief Rosen every single day, three times a day in fact, and only after Rosen had deemed Nigel fit to be trusted would Nigel be allowed to act a little more independently. Second, Nigel would not be permitted inside St. Mungo’s when he was not on duty or in class or speaking to Chief Rosen. Furthermore, he was not permitted to enter the Incurables ward unless he was in the presence of Chief Rosen. Curiously, Nigel was not restricted from having contact with Frank Longbottom—he simply had to be watched over with care and great caution by the authorities.

Nigel wasn’t so sure he liked these conditions, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to negotiate. Ginny was less pleased with it than Nigel.

“They’re treating you like you’re still a Hogwarts student or something,” she snapped. Nigel set a bowl of chicken soup before her, and a plate of crackers.

“I don’t like it much myself, but there’s nothing else that can be done,” he replied. He took a taste of the soup and broke up a few crackers into it.

“You could talk to Rosen, away from the Governors. You said he liked you, so maybe he’ll give you some freedom.”

But Nigel discovered otherwise the very next day when he made his return to St. Mungo’s.

“That decision was mine, Mr. Weasley-Chaucer,” Rosen explained. “The Governors wanted to see you chucked out altogether, but I made them see reason. I think someone used the word Maverick to refer to you. It’s a risk taking you back, but personally, I felt that it would be foolish to let someone of your talent, brilliance and compassion fall by the wayside over politics or money.” He patted Nigel on the shoulder with a strong hand. “Don’t worry, son. The time will pass more quickly than you’ll know. In fact, if you can show me some excellent work these next two months, I might see fit to catch you up with your classmates, no questions asked.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nigel said, relieved. Perhaps he had an ally after all.

“Now tell me, Weasley-Chaucer, when is your wife due?”

“Likely in early September, sir.”

“And how is she feeling?”

“The worst of her morning sickness is over with, and from what she tells me, she’s feeling pretty good. I give her lots of chicken soup, mainly because it seems to make her feel better at night. She drinks gallons of ginger tea, too, and we both make sure she stays active.”

“And what about apparation?” he asked.

“Personally, I don’t think it’s advisable after the fifth month, though it’s going to be hard to convince Ginny of that,” Nigel replied, imagining the row they would likely have when he told her she had to stop apparating until the pregnancy was over.

“Excellent. That’s good advice, Weasley-Chaucer. If you can keep showing your natural talents, I think you’ll be just fine. Just remember, no rash decisions.”

Nigel decided not to argue the point. He didn’t want to get anyone else in trouble. As the next several weeks passed, Nigel continued to work under Rosen’s supervision. What started off as an annoyance transformed into a true gift. Jude Rosen was one of the best Healers Nigel had ever encountered, and much like Snape, had an innate sense for the right sort of treatment to administer to a patient. The more closely they worked together, the stronger their rapport became, as well. Nigel was given more and more freedom, though by the start of May, he began to see his daily meetings with Rosen less as an obligation and more as an opportunity to learn something new and unexpected.

Always in the back of his mind was the potion for Frank Longbottom. While Nigel had not yet made it, at least not one that could work on any living thing, he continued his research on the project. Nigel found himself talking to Rosen about it just as much as he talked to Snape—he appreciated the different point-of-view. Snape worked from an alchemical perspective, whereas Rosen’s approach to potions was rooted in the biological systems of each individual. He believed that no potion worked for everyone, and that knowing the biochemical makeup of the individual allowed the Healer to create a potion exclusively for that person and no one else. Nigel thought Rosen was brilliant, yes, as brilliant as Severus Snape. Rosen had also given Nigel much advice on pregnancy so that he could better monitor Ginny’s progress. They still had a long time to go, but Nigel felt that they couldn’t be too cautious.

So when the touchy subject of apparation came up again, Nigel braced himself for a fight. Ginny came home from the office one evening, looking rather dejected. Nigel worried.

“You look tired,” he said, rushing to get her a cup of chamomile tea and a cheese and tomato sandwich.

“Trouble at work,” she grumbled, throwing herself into a squashy chair near the telly. “My boss told me today that I’m no longer allowed to travel.”

“Makes sense to me,” Nigel said, laying out the supper before her. “After all, you’re five months along.”

“Almost five months.” She ate the sandwich in four huge bites while a slightly stunned Nigel watched with wonder.

“So what’s he giving you, then?”

“Editorials. In-depth columns, stuff like that. No action, no matches unless they’re local.”

“It’s only temporary, until the baby comes.”

“But then I won’t want to travel at all!” she complained.

“Yeah, but Ginny, apparation is hard on the body! You know that! And if you get splinched, that could be a disaster!”

Ginny glared at him. “Who says I’m going to get splinched? I’ve never gotten splinched! Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’ve lost my mind!”

“I never said you lost your mind,” Nigel shot back. “But if you’re tired one day, I mean really tired and you’re not quite focusing, you know that anything could happen! I’m not judging you, Ginny! But we have to be cautious, for the baby’s sake!”

She sighed and nodded. “I know, Nigel. It’s just frustrating. I’ll be honest, I’m still getting used to all this, and it’s not easy for me. I’m not used to being held down like this. I feel like I’ve sort of lost something.”

Nigel frowned. “We both have.”

“But it’s different for you, Nigel. You’re a man! Your body isn’t affected by hormones and lactation and kicking and everything else!”

“But every decision I make is affected by this! I can’t just go off and do whatever the hell I want any more. Don’t turn this into a gender issue, Ginny, because men are affected by pregnancy, too! When I sat before that panel, I got an earful from them about my lack of responsibility, and they were right to admonish me! Every choice I make at work will have an impact on our future as a family, because if I fuck up again and get my arse fired or tossed in jail or sued, then that affects you and our child! Don’t you get it?”

“I’m just a little scared,” Ginny admitted. “You and are so young! We’ve barely started our twenties! Think about it!”

Nigel kissed her cheek. “Age is only a number. Think of everything you and I have experienced in our lives! We fought a war together! I was in the Ministry! You’ve traveled the world! You saved lives in New York! Not a lot of people can say they’ve done what we have. You and I have seen the very worst in people, and the best, too. We’ve seen thugs like Draco transform into decent and heroic individuals. We were a part of that, both of us! We have a lot to be proud of, and we have so much to give our child.”

Ginny smiled through new tears. “You’re going to be a good father, Nigel.”

That night they lay close and warm in their bed, sleeping deeply. Nigel was sure he was dreaming of woodpeckers knocking and knocking away on the front door of the apartment. Knock knock knock…

Poke. Nigel felt Ginny’s elbow in his ribs.

He grunted and rolled over.

Poke poke.

“Mmm,” Nigel murmured. “Stop.”

Then a hand on his shoulder. “Nigel!” Ginny whispered. “Someone’s knocking at the door!”

“What?”

“Someone’s at the door!”

It was true. That annoying knocking wasn’t just a dream. Nigel pulled on his t-shirt and a pair of sweats and stumbled to the front door to see who the hell was making all the racket. He peered through the peephole in the door, only to see a frantic, agitated Draco Malfoy ready to knock again. Nigel threw open the door and pulled Draco inside.

“What the hell?” Nigel snapped. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Nigel, I need you right now!” Draco said. His face was pale with fright.

“Me? Why?”

“Pansy!”

“Pansy? What’s going on?”

“She’s in labour!”

“Are you sure it isn’t false labour? That happens a lot.”

“The bed is soaked, so I’m pretty sure it’s real.”

“Damn! Where’s your Healer?”

“With another patient, delivering another baby. Triplets! He’s going to be busy for several hours, but Nigel, I think this baby is coming NOW!”

“Oh gods!” Nigel exclaimed. “Uh…right…alright, I’ll get my shoes and…shit! What do I bring?”

“This,” Ginny said from the doorway, holding out a Healer’s kit. “Do you need me to come?”

“No, thanks,” Nigel said. “I think we can handle this. I’ll ring you later.”

Together, Nigel and Draco rushed out of the flat and with a pop, disapparated straight to Malfoy Manor. The moment they entered the grand mansion, Draco and Nigel could hear Pansy upstairs, calling out in a frightened voice for Draco to come quick.

“Shit!” Draco fumed. “Nigel, what do you need?”

Nigel quickly wrote out a short list of supplies that he would need, and, leaving Draco to fetch everything, rushed upstairs to the Master Suite. There, he found a very distressed Pansy Malfoy lying in bed, tears streaming down her beautiful face. Strands of her dark hair stuck to her sweaty cheeks as she struggled to breathe properly, as her Healer had instructed her. She was visibly scared and confused.

“Pansy, I’m here to help you,” Nigel said. 

Quickly, he pointed his finger at an empty space on the floor, conjuring a special maternity chair where Pansy could sit and be able to deliver the baby more comfortably. Then, he helped her out of bed carefully and got her into the chair. A quick inspection proved Draco’s earlier statement to be correct—this baby was coming right now. 

“OK, Pansy, now you’re going to have to work with me, alright? I’m going to help you through this, so you need to follow everything I tell you, and be very brave.”

Pansy nodded frantically.

“Now breathe calmly and deeply, just like your Healer taught you.” Nigel modeled the correct breaths for her, and soon, Pansy was following along. By then, Draco had arrived with everything Nigel would need. “Right, then,” Nigel said. “Let’s deliver this baby.”

* * * * *

At 7:31 on the morning of May 13, 2002, Abraxas Nigel Malfoy was born. Pansy had been very brave throughout the procedure, though Draco nearly fainted twice. In the end, however, the new and very doting father had held his wife’s hand as she delivered the baby. Nigel had only studied the procedure out of books—he had neither performed the procedure before, nor had he even witnessed it. As he worked with steady hands, Nigel prayed from the depths of his soul that the baby would be healthy and that Pansy would be alright. As he saw the beautiful pink complexion of the new little Malfoy, Nigel breathed a sigh of relief. He took a cloth wet with warm water and wiped him clean—eyes, ears, face, extremities, everything.

“Perfect little boy,” he said. The three of them, along with the baby, burst into happy tears. “Pansy, you did just fine,” Nigel said proudly. “And you, Draco, well…”

Draco wiped the sweat and tears off his face and sat on the edge of the bed, unable to keep his tired eyes off the little baby in Pansy’s arms. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Draco said, his voice thick with emotion and exhaustion.

“Do you want to hold him?” Pansy asked.

Draco wasn’t sure how to respond. Nigel could see that he wanted to but didn’t know the first thing about how to do it. In truth, Nigel knew little more than Draco about that sort of thing. Being an only child in a relatively small extended family gave him little experience with small children. The closest he got was when his cousin Thelma had twins—Nigel and his family would see Thelma and the kids whenever they visited his other cousin, Tony, in London. What Nigel did remember was that when you held a baby, you were supposed to support the head, which he told Draco to do. With trembling hands and a determined look on his lean face, Draco gathered his new son into his arms, gently kissing his little forehead.

“Hi there, Abraxas,” he whispered to his son. “You’re so beautiful! Yes you are!” Draco laughed and sniffled and found that he couldn’t let his newborn son go.

“Pansy,” Nigel said, “I’m going to fetch Chief Rosen right now so he can complete the procedure and make sure you’re alright. You should nurse the baby right now. I’ll be back in just a few minutes!”

When Nigel apparated to St. Mungo's, he dashed straight to Rosen’s office, bursting in on what was likely an important meeting. Nigel didn’t have time to feel embarrassed or afraid. Both Rosen and the man who sat opposite him looked at the intruder, aghast and angry.

“I’m so sorry, sir, truly,” Nigel began, gasping to catch his breath. “Sir, there’s an emergency at Malfoy Manor, and your son, their Healer, isn’t available! I need you or another Healer right now!”

Rosen jumped up. “Is it Mrs. Malfoy? Did she deliver?”

“I just came from there, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but Draco came to me because their Healer was delivering another baby and there wasn’t anything else to do but just go because she was already in labour and the baby was just about to arrive and there was no time to get anyone else!” Nigel gulped. “But there’s the afterbirth that needs seeing to, sir, and I don’t know how to do that part and I need help!”

The other Healer stood up, grinning. “Well, Jude, it looks as if you’ve got more important things to do this morning,” he said. He turned to Nigel and shook his hand. “You delivered the baby, young man?”

Nigel nodded.

The Healer grinned again. “Nice work. Catch you later, Jude. We’ll finish this business up this evening.”

Rosen grabbed his emergency kit and apparated with Nigel back to Malfoy Manor. They landed just a few feet outside the front gates.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Nigel explained as they trudged up the long walk towards the main house. “There was no one else and there was no time to go for help, so I just followed procedure.” Nigel prayed he hadn’t overstepped his bounds again by helping the Malfoys. He hoped Rosen would be merciful.

“And is the baby healthy?”

“He seems fine. Pansy did really well, too. She was really strong through the whole thing.”

“Good.” Rosen stopped briefly and placed a reassuring hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “Nigel, I’m really proud of you. There was an emergency situation, and you behaved professionally and quickly. That’s a sign of an excellent Healer. Well done.”

Nigel wanted to faint from relief, but of course, there was no time for that. Too much to do, too many things to worry about.

Upstairs, Rosen went to work on Pansy, and with Nigel’s assistance, she was cleaned up, given a restorative potion and told to have a nice, long sleep. In the meantime, Rosen checked baby Abraxas, making sure everything was in order.

“He’s a beautiful child,” Rosen told Draco. “He’ll have dark hair like his mum, but pale eyes like you. Mr. Malfoy, I will send word to my son to come here straight away.” Rosen took Nigel by the arm and led him out of the room. “Nigel, I’d like you to stay here for the rest of the day and see to things. I’ve given Mrs. Malfoy a potion to help her relax and to reduce pain, but I want you to monitor her symptoms.”

“She’s alright, isn’t she?” Nigel asked, slightly worried.

“So far, yes. But she delivered three weeks early, so once my son is free, he’ll come and take a closer look at her.”

Nigel nodded. “Right, sir.”

“You know, I was here when Draco was born.”

“He told me that recently. So you know the famly well?”

“Well enough. Sad about Lucius, of course, but then again, it was fate. I’m glad that Draco chose a different path.”

“Me, too.”

Rosen smiled. “And I’m glad you’re in his life, Nigel. You’ve been a good influence on him over the years. You really brought him around.”

Nigel could feel the tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. “Well I hope his son will have a chance at a good life, too, sir.”

“Jude. Call me Jude. All my friends do.” Rosen turned towards the stairs but stopped. “Save the formal stuff for when we’re public places or with the Governors or other Healers. Personally, I hate all that formality. I was always on a first-name basis with all my clients, or most of them, and always with colleagues and peers.” With a furtive wave of his hand, Rosen descended the stairs and left the Manor. Nigel measured his breaths slowly, deeply, gradually regaining control of himself. He stretched out his arms, hands, fingers, feeling the energy in his body surge and then mellow out.

Back in the bedroom, Nigel saw both Pansy and the baby fast asleep, but not Draco. He sat by the window, heaving silent sobs. Nigel sat next to him but didn’t speak until Draco was ready. He handed Draco a handkerchief, which Draco used to dry his eyes and blow his nose. Draco stood and motioned for Nigel to follow him downstairs.

“You OK?” Nigel asked.

Draco didn’t reply for a moment. “This is the most incredible day of my life, Nigel.” They sat on the long leather couch in the library, feet propped up on the low table in front of them, and drank sherry out of teacups. They rested their tired heads together as they drank and pondered.

“You know,” Draco continued, “I’ve been around magic all my life. I’ve seen amazing things through magic—you and I both have. But nothing compares to this, Nigel. Nothing. I wasn’t prepared for something like this, it was so…I don’t know how to describe it!”

“But this wasn’t magic,” Nigel said.

“I know. That’s the whole point. It’s so strange, I mean, I think there must be powers greater than magic, don’t you think?”

“You mean divine powers?”

“I guess so. Father used to tell me that all that religion and god stuff was just for muggles. He used to say it was a sign of weakness.”

“I was raised with it actually,” Nigel said. “I mean, I was never super religious or anything, though I usually went to services. I still do sometimes, though I don’t tell Ginny. She’s doesn’t quite get all that sort of thing.”

“It’s so overwhelming to watch another human life come into the world, you know? And to know that what I did, what Pansy and I did made it happen.”

Nigel smiled wistfully. “You mean sex?”

“But it’s more than that. That’s just biology. But what about personality and intelligence and feeling? That’s more than just biology, Nigel, and it’s not magic, either.” Draco sighed heavily and took a long drink. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I hear you.” Nigel yawned and stretched.

“You need sleep,” Draco noted.

“I know.” Nigel yawned again.

Suddenly, Draco put his hand on Nigel’s. “Hey, Nigel, listen,” he said. “I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate what you did for us tonight.”

Nigel sat up and faced Draco. “It was an honour to help, really.”

Draco frowned for a moment, then looked Nigel in the eye. “You know that I’m not exactly the sentimental sort, right?”

Nigel snorted. “You’re about as sentimental as Severus.”

Draco rolled his eyes impatiently. “All I want to say to you is that I think it was a miracle that you became a wizard.”

“A lot of people would agree with you on that.”

“It’s just that…this is hard to say…I love you, Nigel, and…shit! I’m so bad at this!”

“You don’t have to say it, Draco.”

“No, Nigel, I really do. Do you know that my father never told me he loved me?”

“Oh come on, I’m sure he did in his own way.”

“I know he did, but a person needs to hear it, too. You know, you and I have been through a lot together, and how many times have you saved my stupid arse?”

Nigel suddenly felt increasingly uncomfortable. “That’s what friends do, Draco.”

“You did the greatest thing imaginable for me, Nigel.”

“You mean delivering the baby?”

“You gave me real respect, respect I didn’t deserve.” Draco poured out more sherry and took a long drink. “I’ve been a shit all my life, but you never treated me that way. There’s nothing that I can ever do that could possibly make up for what you’ve given me.”

Nigel didn’t know what to say. How could he possibly give an adequate response to such an outpouring of friendship? Nigel could feel Draco’s struggle intensely and wanted him not to continue. On the other hand, Nigel also understood that his friend had gone through so many drastic changes over the years that it was only fair to allow Draco to speak his mind and unburden his heart.

“Draco,” Nigel started, not really knowing what he would say next, “I’m really touched. I’m speechless.”

Draco sniffled and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robes. “I’m just a bit overwhelmed by everything, mate. I don’t usually get like this.”

“You can say that again,” Nigel said.

Draco laughed. “You’re next.”

“What?”

“When Ginny’s time comes, you’ll be the one babbling like a git!”

Nigel laughed at that. “I always babble like a git! I babble way too much! I can’t imagine what an emotional wreck I’ll be when ours is born.”

“Will yours be considered a halfblood or pureblood?” Draco wondered.

“Does that matter?”

“No, not at all. I was just curious. It’ll be good for Ginny, though, having you there. You were bloody amazing with Pansy just now. I’ve seen you work wonders with potions, but I had no idea how talented a Healer you really are.”

“Well thanks for letting me experiment on your wife,” Nigel said, laughing again.

Their teacups now empty, Nigel and Draco climbed back up the stairs to check on Pansy and baby Abraxas. For now, as the clouds cleared in the blue Spring sky, all was well and peaceful and quiet. It was a lovely picture indeed for Nigel, watching in awe and with joy as the new parents cooed over their tiny baby as if the rest of the world didn’t exist in the slightest.

And then it was back to work.


	22. Trials and Tribulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Word got around quickly that Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, member of Slytherin House and former murder suspect, had delivered the child of Draco and Pansy Malfoy in the home of the recently deceased Lucius Malfoy. Word also spread that the Chief of Staff at St. Mungo’s himself came to assist at the birth. Few knew what to make of it. On the one hand, this was the great Nigel Chaucer, Potions Master and engineer of the downfalls of two dark wizards. On the other hand, though everything was supposedly forgiven and forgotten, this was still the Malfoys.  
> _

Word got around quickly that Nigel Weasley-Chaucer, member of Slytherin House and former murder suspect, had delivered the child of Draco and Pansy Malfoy in the home of the recently deceased Lucius Malfoy. Word also spread that the Chief of Staff at St. Mungo’s himself came to assist at the birth. Few knew what to make of it. On the one hand, this was the great Nigel Chaucer, Potions Master and engineer of the downfalls of two dark wizards. On the other hand, though everything was supposedly forgiven and forgotten, this was still the Malfoys.

Few remembered Abraxas Malfoy, though some of the older witches and wizards did. The elder Abraxas had been a terror to many, a ruthless criminal who ransacked the fortunes of hundreds of wizards and muggles alike, amassing a fortune too vast to count. And now, sitting in that grand house built with blood-money, was the Malfoy heir, with his aloof, snobbish wife and now, with their squalling little brat, another Abraxas Malfoy brought into the world.

How could Nigel Chaucer get mixed up in this?

While these doubts were not written about in the _Daily Prophet_ , they were liberally discussed in taverns and shops and streetcorners everywhere. As Nigel and Ginny made their way through Diagon Alley one Saturday afternoon to visit Fred and George, a very short, very plump witch dressed all in blue openly glared at Nigel. Taken aback, Nigel didn’t know what to think.

“What’s going on with people these days?” he wondered.

Ginny shrugged. “It’s about Draco, of course.”

“What? What did he do?”

“Oh nothing. Just being the son of Lucius Malfoy and the grandson of Abraxas Malfoy is crime enough.”

“Aren’t people supposed to have gone beyond that?” Nigel asked bitterly. “What about the fact that Draco risked his life to bring down the Dark…Lord Voldemort?”

“A lot of people risked their lives for that.”

“But Draco allowed himself nearly to be killed—he was ready to let Voldemort kill him so that Harry could kill Voldemort! How is it that people’s memories are so short?”

Ginny shook her head. “Well, they were ready to string you up, so why not Draco, too? He’s done far more dark stuff than you ever did.”

“I never did anything dark!” Nigel protested.

Ginny gave his arm a squeeze as they continued along Diagon Alley. “Nigel, you have to learn to take a step back from these things. You are so quick to get worked up over some ridiculous gossip. Draco is the one who has to live with it, and it’s very likely he will have to for a long time. It’s not his fault, but when he named his son Abraxas, he brought up a lot of old wounds that he’s too young to remember.”

“Was he that bad?”

“Dad said the man was a absolute terror. He killed a lot of people and got very rich by it.”

“Then maybe Draco is trying to change the name to something more positive. Remember how he changed Malfoy Manor after his parents were imprisoned? He turned it into something beautiful. So maybe he can do the same with his son.”

Ginny kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such an optimist, Nigel,” she said. “I love you.”

Fred and George’s shop, as usual, was filled with customers, all of whom were fascinated by the newest Wizard Wheezes product: Vanishing Shoes. They came in all sorts of designs, for men and for women, but when the person put the shoes on, their feet would become invisible. Ginny and Nigel laughed out loud at that.

“That is hilarious!” Ginny crowed. “Do they come in massively pregnant size?”

George laughed. “The bigger question is whether your husband will allow you to wear them at all.”

Ginny socked him in the arm. “My husband doesn’t _allow_ me to do anything!”

“She just does it,” Nigel added.

“She learned well, then,” George replied portentously. “Bless you, child. Oh, Nigel, I’ve got something for you, something that will help you with the Longbottom potion. Follow me.”

In the crowded and cluttered back room of the shop, George pulled out a small green box and handed it to Nigel.

“What is it?” Nigel asked.

“It looks like a box,” Ginny laughed.

“Open it,” George said. “It’s something you’ll use forever. Trust me.”

Nigel opened it. Inside rested a beautiful crystal phial, filled with a pale blue substance. Looking a bit closer, Nigel noticed that it sparkled subtly inside. “This isn’t illegal, is it?”

George laughed. “No! Well, not that I know of. It’s Pixie Dust.”

Nigel made a face. “Pixie Dust? You’re joking, right?”

“You use it in extremely small quantities. It has incredible effects on potions.”

“Where did you get it?” Ginny asked.

“Uh, from a friend of a friend,” George replied, a bit uncomfortable.

“Have you ever heard of Pixie Dust?” Nigel asked Snape later that day. They sat in Snape’s office waiting for a sample of Felix Felicis to finish the last stage of brewing.

“I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’ve only used it once. A very long time ago.” Snape fiddled with the ends of his hair, which had grown considerably over the year. 

To Nigel’s astonishment, Snape’s hair looked remarkably clean, healthy—and without a trace of any grease. He had gathered it into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, another drastic change in his appearance. Nigel also took notice of a vase of flowers on Snape’s desk and that the windows were thrown wide open to let in the fresh Spring air.

Nigel decided not to make a comment on these changes. He was sure that his cousin’s pride would be compromised if he tried to make light of these refreshing developments. Instead, Nigel contented himself with smiling inwardly—he couldn’t wait to tell Ginny.

“So why did you never tell me about this stuff?” he asked Snape.

“You never asked.”

“Right, and if I had asked you, ‘if you please, Professor, can you tell me about Pixie Dust?’ would you have chucked me out on day one!”

Snape grinned wickedly. “Probably.”

“So George Weasley says it has amazing effects on potions.”

“He’s right. Two grains of Pixie Dust will accelerate the effects of specific ingredients, those that possess similar properties. But you have to be careful with it. Some ingredients don’t need acceleration, and with others, you can go overboard. If you use it in potions, you must be extremely careful.”

“It’s not lethal, is it?”

“No, not lethal. But a liberal use of it can cause unwanted effects, so tread very cautiously. You’re going to use this on Frank Longbottom?”

“I don’t know. I’m still in the research stage.”

Snape furrowed his brow. “Why haven’t you conducted trials yet?”

“I’ve been busy! Pregnant wife, delivering Malfoy Junior, working, restoring my reputation, getting the baby’s room ready. I’ve got a lot going on! Plus sleep, eating, taking the occasional bathroom break.”

Snape opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out long piece of parchment, filled with intricate, extremely detailed notes. Nigel glanced it over in amazement.

“Severus! This is amazing! Thank you so much! But when did you ever find the time to do all this research?”

“Most of it is based on prior knowledge, but some of it is new. I did quite a lot of speculating on some of the ingredients, and offered some suggestions for pairings.”

“I hardly know what to say, Severus, this is just so fantastic,” Nigel exclaimed. “Thank you so much for this.”

“Now go on and get that damn potion made.”

* * * * *

May turned into June, then July and into the sweltering month of August. Ginny had already had two false alarms, sending both of them to the emergency room of St. Mungo's at four in the morning, only to be sent home again. No baby yet.

By mid August, Nigel had rotated to the artifact accidents ward, which pleased him very much. Most of the patients were there for simple things—broken bones, bruises, bad lacerations, things that could be healed in a matter of just a few days at worst. The best part about it was that it freed his mind to think about possible combinations that might work in a potion for Frank. Snape had been meticulous in his notations, all of which Nigel had studied over and over. The Pixie Dust could work with four of the combinations Snape suggested, but Nigel had to figure out just how many grains of the precious Dust to include.

Off to the laboratory, in the basement of St. Mungo’s. It was time to brew.

The first potion Nigel developed made his test subject go to sleep for thirteen hours. Not the effect he had hoped for. The second one kept the test subject awake for three days. Too much Pixie Dust. The third trial was the worst. The test subject, this time a first-year student at St. Mungo's, ran into a closet, barricaded himself inside, and for six hours, sang the Hogwarts alma mater. Back to the drawing board.

The fourth potion Nigel developed wasn’t too bad, except that the test subject told just a little too much about his personal life, more than Nigel or anyone else wanted to learn.

“Shades of Veritaserum,” Rosen noted.

Nigel scowled. “I used one of the ingredients from Veritaserum in the potion. Actually, I used three of the same ingredients, plus three grains of Pixie Dust.”

“Change it to one grain,” Rosen suggested.

“But not any of the other ingredients?”

“Try it with less Dust first.”

Less Pixie Dust. One grain instead of three. In truth, obtaining a single grain of the stuff was incredibly painstaking and challenging. With a steady hand, Nigel used the finest pair of tweezers St. Mungo's possessed in its laboratory and slowly, very carefully, using a magnifying glass, managed to pluck out a single grain, which he then dropped onto a glass slide. And then, his hand gently covering it up, Nigel carried the little grain to the potion and again, using the tweezers, laid it onto the surface of the mint green potion.

The moment the grain of Pixie Dust touched the surface of the potion, it went from a creamy consistency to something clear and light and fragrant. Nigel remembered with a laugh his concerns about the smell of a potion. His one experience with Polyjuice Potion still haunted him just a little—it was by far the worst, most unpleasant experience with potions he had ever endured. Frank was in no condition to go through something as sickening as that.

Once the potion had simmered for exactly three days on a very low flame, Nigel decanted it into a silver flask using a glass tube, and then set it on ice at a 45-degree angle for another three days.

The effect on the test subject was remarkable. A half-teaspoon of the potion mixed in a cup of hot tea was all it took. The test subject, a witch who had fallen into a depression after her son died, was anxious for a way out of her despair and endless gloom. Weeks and weeks of crying and fretting and mourning had transformed this once beautiful woman into a pallid ghost of what she once was. And yet, the effects of the potion were instantaneous. 

Her complexion changed—that was the first thing Nigel and Rosen noticed. The circles under her sunken eyes vanished, and a rosy tint came back into her cheeks. She coughed once, but then, as if freed from the horrors of Azkaban, she took a deep breath and smiled.

“How do you feel, Mrs. Marks?” Nigel asked, helping her sit down by the window.

“I…I don’t know…I…I’ve never felt like this before,” she replied, clearly pleased but clearly confused.

As the week progressed and Mrs. Marks took more of the potion, her mood stabilised and she increasingly ready to talk about her loss and about her hopes for the future. This gave Nigel great hope for Frank.

“But remember, Nigel,” Rosen said, “Mrs. Marks was understandably depressed after losing her son. Her depression was severe, but not uncommon. Frank’s situation is very different.”

“I understand that, Jude,” Nigel replied. “But it’s the best thing I’ve seen so far. I’m getting a good feeling about it all.” He paused. “I know that Frank may never be fully restored, but even if he can be helped half-way, three-quarters of the way, then that’s good. At least he can talk about what happened, which was the idea in the first place. If he can get all that pain and torment out of him, then he can really start to change his life.”

Rosen sat back and pondered. “What about his wife? What about Alice?”

“So far, Alice has shown no signs of awareness, whereas Frank did. That’s what drew my interest in the first place. It was as if he were trying to climb out of this mental prison that’s stifled him for twenty-one years now.”

Rosen nodded his head. “Well we’ll study Mrs. Marks for a couple more weeks, maybe another month or so, and monitor any potential side effects to this potion. You might not get to Frank until after your baby is born. How much longer is it now?”

“About a month,” Nigel said. “I hope she’s not early, like Pansy.”

In fact, Ginny was not early. The due date came and went, and still no baby Chaucer.

“I was late,” Ginny said. “So was Ron, and so was Charlie. Maybe it’s genetic.”

“I bet the twins were early. I hope they were.”

“Only two weeks.”

“Wow. Your mum is a brave woman.”

Another day passed, and another. No baby. Ginny was increasingly uncomfortable, and it took nearly all of Nigel’s time to give her some relief. But after another day passed, Nigel had had enough. He took Ginny straight to St. Mungo's so that Jude Rosen could induce labour.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Weasley-Chaucer?” Rosen asked.

Ginny nodded furtively. “Please. I don’t want to let this go another day.”

“Very well.” Rosen grabbed three little bottles of some sort of potion, then took out his wand. “Mrs. Weasley-Chaucer, you must drink down each of these potions, one at a time, very quickly. Are you ready?”

“What will they do?”

“The first will relax you, because you’re very tense. The second two combined will alter your body chemistry somewhat, but just enough to stimulate labour. I’ll guide the process along with a spell.”

Nigel kissed Ginny on the lips and brushed her hair out of her face. He held her hand as she drank down all three potions and then laid her head back on the bed. Just as he had done with Pansy, Nigel and Rosen helped Ginny into the maternity chair, but suddenly, Rosen turned to Nigel.

“Nigel, I’d like you to wait outside,” he said.

“What? No, I want to be with her! She’s my wife, I want to be with her! I’m a Healer! I can help! I delivered a baby in May! Please, Jude, I need to be here!”

“Nigel, I’d like you to call your parents and hers, so they know the baby is finally coming today. Can you do that?”

Nigel’s face grew pale. “She’s alright, isn’t she? Jude, is she alright?”

“She’s going to be fine, Nigel, but I really can’t have you in the birthing room. I must insist that you contact your family so they can come and see the baby.”

A wave of terror tore through Nigel, and he rushed forward to be at Ginny’s side—Rosen stood in his way. He grabbed Nigel by the arms and walked him firmly but gently out of the room. At the same time, a team of three other Healers and two other assistants arrived, wands and potions in hand, ready to work. Nigel thought he would be sick. He could barely breathe just then, and it took all he had to be able to scribble a note to Arthur. After he sent off the note by owl, he stepped outside to ring his parents.

“Mum?” Nigel said, a tinge of emotion in his voice. His mother sensed it.

“Honey? Are you alright?”

“Ginny’s in hospital,” he said, trying to steel his emotions. “I think there’s something wrong.”

“Should we come straight away?”

“Arthur and Molly will be along soon to bring you both here. Just hurry.”

There was nothing else for him to do but wait, but as each minute crawled by, Nigel grew increasingly agitated. Dark thoughts invaded his imagination, terrible projections, all of which he strove to banish from his mind. She had to be alright. The pregnancy had been ideal, perfect, in spite of the two instances of false labour. But that was relatively normal. Maybe they waited too long to induce labour. Maybe it was his fault for not seeing a warning sign. But he was an intern, not well versed in witches’ health concerns.

Their parents arrived, white-faced and anxious, arms outstretched to give Nigel as much comfort and consolation that they could in such a moment.

“How is she?” Molly asked.

“Is she still in labour?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“How long have you been waiting?” Mr. Chaucer asked.

“Why don’t we all sit down and give Nigel a bit of breathing space,” Arthur suggested.

“I don’t really know anything,” Nigel confessed. “Jude Rosen is taking care of her right now.”

“Chief Rosen?” Molly asked, perplexed. “Why not your own Healer?”

“He’s in there, too, but it was an emergency. I rushed Ginny over here as quick as I could, and Jude took charge of the situation. Did I foul it up, Dad? Should we have come in earlier?”

“You did the best you could, Nigel,” he replied consolingly. “That’s all we can ever do. Pregnancy can bring some very unexpected situations, isn’t that right?”

“When my sister had her daughter,” Mrs. Chaucer recalled, “labour took nearly two days.”

“Poor thing!” Molly exclaimed. “When I had Ron, no one thought I was going to be quite right because the labour was so intense. But I had excellent care and I was just fine. Remember, dear, Ginny comes from two very strong, very healthy families. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Nigel wasn’t so sure. Was that doubt in Molly’s voice? Maternal instinct that told her something grim? Or was he just projecting his own fears onto her? If he could only be in that room.

Several hours passed, and finally, the door opened. A very tired, stressed out Jude Rosen emerged. Nigel jumped to his feet and rushed to him.

“Let’s sit down,” Rosen said, leading Nigel back to the sitting area.

“Is Ginny alright, Healer Rosen?” Molly asked.

“Let me explain what happened.”

“Oh gods!” Molly sobbed. “Where is my daughter? I want to see her!”

“You will be able to, Mrs. Weasley, but not just now. Firstly, Nigel, the baby is just fine. He’s being cleaned up and looked after right now.”

Nigel’s heart skipped a beat. “He? It’s a son?”

Mrs. Chaucer and Molly hugged each other. The new grandfathers shook hands and laughed.

“We had to do an alternative procedure with Ginny,” Rosen explained, “which is why we took so long.”

“You mean a caesarean section?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“No, we don’t do those. It was, however, an invasive procedure, so that means that Ginny needs about four days in hospital to recover.”

“So she’s fine?” Nigel asked.

“She’s one tough lady,” Rosen replied, smiling. “And yes, she’s fine. Her body needs rest, though.”

“Can I see her?” Nigel asked. “I won’t disturb her, I promise.”

“I think you can,” Rosen said. “I’m sorry, but it can only be one person at a time. Come with me, Nigel, there’s someone I want you to see before you visit your wife.”

Nigel groaned at the delay. Couldn’t Jude Rosen leave business aside for a single day? He was about to complain to Rosen when a Healer approached them, with a bundle in her arms. Rosen grinned.

“Nigel, meet your son,” he said, indicating the bundle.

Nigel gasped. Inside the warm blankets was a tiny little baby, pink-cheeked, squirming and making little baby noises. He had a little tuft of flaming red hair on his head. “Oh my gods,” he whispered, feeling his heart soar. “Can I…”

“Hold him?” The Healer carefully placed the bundled up little Chaucer into Nigel’s arms.

“Hey little Freddy,” Nigel said, kissing his son’s forehead. All thoughts of stress and trouble and potions went straight out of Nigel’s mind as he absorbed the sheer beauty of this tiny little life in his own arms. He couldn’t help but laugh and cry at the same time. Something within Nigel had changed forever, something deeper than magic and far more powerful—he was a father.


	23. An Amazing Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I had dark dreams that night,” Frank recalled. “Frightening dreams that I was back in that dungeon again, with Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus Snape standing over me.”_
> 
> _“Severus Snape?” Nigel asked, aghast._
> 
> _“In the dream, I pounced on Snape, that damn viper, and I choked the life out of him,” Frank said. “That felt good.”_

After four long but restful days, Ginny returned home to the flat, fully recovered and re-energized. She and Nigel had spent much time creating a beautiful room for the new baby, so all she had left to do was take care of little Freddy. The night of her homecoming, the family gathered at the flat for a celebratory dinner. All of Ginny’s siblings and their significant others came, as did Nigel’s parents, aunt and uncle, cousin Tony and of course, Severus Snape. They all sat around the living room eating the vast feast that Mrs. Chaucer and Molly had prepared.

“So you’re going to explain the baby’s name, right?” Charlie asked.

“Well,” Ginny said, “we couldn’t decide on whose father we should name him after, so we decided on neither.”

Everyone laughed.

“And then it occurred to me that there are two people who are the most responsible for Nigel even meeting,” she continued.

“True,” Nigel agreed. “See, if I hadn’t come up to London at age fifteen to see you, Tony, I never would have been hit by that lorry and left for dead…”

“Oh, how horrible!” Molly exclaimed.

“And if Fred and George here hadn’t been kind enough to donate blood for that muggle cause, I never would have become a wizard at all, which means I never would have gone to Hogwarts or met most of the people in this room.”

“So when we were deciding on names, we had to decide between George Anthony and Frederick Anthony,” Ginny said.

George put his hands on his hips in mock protest. “Oh I see, and you think Fred here is more worthy?”

Everyone laughed.

“Sorry, blood-brother,” Nigel said. “Our next son will be George. I swear!”

“George Severus?” Fred suggested.

“I like that, actually,” Nigel replied.

“Spare me the honour,” Snape grumbled. Allegra kissed him on the cheek. Ron threw a glance at Hermione and sniggered.

All of a sudden, the familiar sound of a baby crying invaded the party. Ginny stood up, but so did Nigel.

“I’ll go, Ginny,” he said, heading towards Freddy’s room.

“Get used to that, Nige!” Bill called out. “Once they’re out of their nappies, it’s all over!”

The next several days and nights were just the same—little Freddy was a bit colicky, and both Nigel and Ginny took turns walking about the flat with him, trying desperately to get him back to sleep. Everything that he had ever heard his parents say about taking care of a baby rang true now. There were no more quiet nights, no more undisturbed hours of sleep, but instead, rising every couple of hours or so, sometimes to feed Freddy or to change his nappy or to walk with him until he drifted back to sleep. Most nights Nigel didn’t mind the interruption, though at times all he wanted more than anything was just another half hour of sleep. But that wasn’t possible.

Within all the new commotion and change at home, September 11 came around. It had been a whole year since the attack on the United States, and since then, he and Ginny had been through quite a lot of other trouble. But Nigel wondered just how recovered Ginny really was from the trauma of what she witnessed that terrible day. He considered asking her about it, but then again, he didn’t want to reopen old, ugly wounds.

But then he had a thought. Wasn’t that exactly what he was trying to do with Frank Longbottom? Wasn’t he trying to open up the old would of Frank’s torture? And yet it was different with Frank. Ginny had been traumatised by the events of September 11, but she had managed to work through it and to keep herself strong and healthy. She had not lost her mind, nor had she suffered a nervous collapse from what happened. And in truth, she wasn’t the one attacked, but rather, a rescue worker. Frank, on the other hand, was the intended victim. Not only had he been brutalised, but he was forced to watch his wife be brutalised as well. Then again, maybe it was the other way around. Maybe she was the one who had to watch him. Either way, the emotional scars in both of them were deep enough to put them in hospital.

Nigel was on the brink of something entirely new, completely exciting, potentially dangerous.

That morning, he trudged into St. Mungo's, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Rosen laughed at him sympathetically.

“Freddy still colicky?”

Nigel groaned. “Poor kid. It’s gotta hurt like hell. I feel so bad for him.”

“Did you give him the potion I prescribed?”

“He threw it up. It didn’t agree with him. I got him a muggle remedy, something my parents used on me when I was a baby.” Nigel paused. “That’s OK, isn’t it? I won’t get into any trouble, right?”

“He’s your son,” Rosen said dismissively. “Give him what you know works. So, after your shift today, are you ready to proceed with Frank?”

“I made a new batch of the potion, with an added grain of Pixie Dust. I don’t think that will be too much for him.”

“And you’re ready to give to him yourself?”

“Can I?” Nigel hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t seen Frank since his suspension. He hoped Frank would know him. “He’ll recognise me, right?”

“He should,” Rosen replied. “He knew his son all these years, so I can’t imagine he would forget you. You made a deep impact on him, from what I’m told. I have kept careful track of his health for a while now, and he’s in good shape. Oh yes, and I’ve been telling him all week that you are coming back to see him.”

“How did he take that?”

“It was a little hard to tell. He definitely responded to your name, so that’s a good sign.”

Nigel scowled. “But he might see me as someone who abandoned him. What if he blames me for what he did to Fowler?”

“Who’s to say he will? Seeing you again might make him happy again. You gave him great hope once. You can do it again.”

The thought made Nigel very nervous. That evening after his shift, he stepped outside to ring up Ginny.

“How’re you doing?” he asked.

“Good. Freddy’s doing great today. That muggle stuff worked perfectly. He had one big fart and now’s he’s just fine.”

“Good. Maybe we’ll all get some sleep tonight.”

“So this is the big day, right?” Ginny said. “You ready?”

“I hope so. I just hope this potion works for him.”

“Just be ready for slow results.”

“I know.”

“Does Neville know?”

“I owled him yesterday that we would start the new treatment today. He wants daily updates.”

“Will he come to visit?”

“As soon as he can. I told him not to rush, though. I don’t want too many shocks thrown at Frank all at once.”

“True. Listen, Nigel, when we’re both more awake tomorrow or the next day, I want to talk over something with you. It isn’t anything to worry about, though. Just take care of Frank, and we’ll see you soon.”

* * * * *

What could she want?

He was afraid she didn’t want any more children. True, the birthing process for Freddy was difficult, but Nigel hoped that wouldn’t put Ginny off to the idea of another child. Then again, it was her body that had to go through the trauma, not his. But Ginny came from a large family, so surely she was told all about childbirth. And Ginny was strong and loving and giving. On the other hand, maybe that wasn’t what she wanted to discuss at all. Maybe she was going to want a house or a larger flat. At this point they could afford a new flat but definitely not a house. When he was finished with his internship, then he would start to make more money, and then they could start saving for a house.

But maybe she didn’t want to talk about a house. Nigel had no idea. All he could do now was to put everything out of mind for the present and focus on Frank. The potion was ready, and Frank was prepped and waiting for him and Jude Rosen.

Nigel entered the Incurables Ward, eager to see Frank again. He wasn’t sure how Frank would react, to be honest. His worst fear was that Frank would shut down emotionally and be completely unresponsive. So when Frank leaped out of his bed, ran to Nigel and threw his arms around him, Nigel didn’t know what to say.

“Nigel!” Frank crowed. He giggled and snorted and jumped up and down like a little boy. In truth, he looked much better than Nigel had expected, which gave him great hope.

“Hi, Frank,” Nigel said brightly. “You heard I was coming?”

“Yay! Nigel’s here!” he sang, still jumping up and down. “Nigel’s here! Nigel’s here! Nigel’s here!”

The other patients responded with a mixture of applause and groans and cheers and even spitting. Nigel took Frank by the arm and led him towards the exam room.

“Remember our room, Frank?” he asked. “Where we used to meet?”

Frank giggled again and clapped his hands excitedly. Inside the exam room, Jude Rosen waited for them, brewing a pot of tea. Frank started at the sight of him, but Nigel prevented him from leaving.

“This is Jude, Frank. He’s going to have tea with us.” Nigel led a now reluctant Frank to have a seat on the metal chair by the exam table. “You like tea, don’t you?”

Frank darted his eyes between Nigel and Rosen before responding. He twiddled his thumbs agitatedly as Nigel poured out a cup of hot tea for Frank, taking care to put two drops of the potion into it. Then, he poured out two more cups of tea for himself and for Rosen, who added a bit of sugar to his. Nigel handed the little porcelain cup to Frank.

“It’s very hot, Frank, so be careful. Can you hold it?”

Frank nodded. He blew off the steam from the surface, and sniffed the tea. He looked a little worried. Nigel drank a little from his own cup—Rosen followed suit. But Frank sat there, reluctant to drink his tea. Rosen opened his mouth to speak, but Nigel stopped him.

“It’s OK, Frank,” Nigel said soothingly. “The tea is perfectly safe. It’s a special tea, made just for you. It will help you.” 

Nigel set his own cup down and reached over to help Frank with his. He put his hand under Frank’s and helped him lift the cup to his lips. Again, Frank sniffed the tea and stopped. But with a little gentle nudging from Nigel, Frank put the cup to his lips and took a tiny taste. Both Nigel and Rosen held their breath, wondering if there would be an instant reaction, as there had been with the test subject. Nothing. The taste was too small.

“Go on, Frank,” Nigel said. “Have more. It’s OK, isn’t it?”

Frank blinked curiously, but didn’t move just then. Using Legilimency, Nigel saw that Frank understood that he didn’t feel quite the same as before. Nigel could also see that Frank was weighing how he felt about that. And then, Frank lifted the cup himself and drank down more tea, nearly half the cup this time.

“Whoa, Frank!” Nigel said warningly. “Just small sips, OK? A little at a time!”

Frank set the cup down on the exam table and took a deep breath, shutting his eyes as he breathed in and out, almost meditatively. The colour rose in his cheeks, and when he turned to face Nigel, his eyes were suddenly wide awake and alert.

“Oh my gods,” Rosen murmured.

“Oh my gods,” Nigel echoed.

“This room is bright,” Frank said.

“Uh…yeah, it is,” Nigel replied, dumbfounded. “How do you feel?”

“What the hell is in that tea?” Frank asked.

“It’s a potion I made for you,” Nigel replied. He could feel a sob rising in his throat, but fought to keep it back. He blinked the tears out of his eyes.

“Frank,” Rosen said, “are you aware of where you are?”

“I’m not a damn fool,” Frank replied sharply. “I’ve been in this dump for ever. Twenty damn years!”

“Twenty-one, actually,” Nigel informed him.

“Shit,” Frank grumbled.

This was something entirely unexpected. Nigel figured that if Frank came out of his stupor he would be sort of giddy and zany for a while—but angry and grumpy?

“So wait,” Frank said, “I’ve been in here half my damn life, and it’s only now that someone got me out of that fog I was in? It was you, right?” he said to Nigel.

“That’s right. I made the potion.”

“You invented it or you just gave it to me?”

“Both. Of course, I had some help and advice, but it was essentially my potion.”

“And your idea?”

“Well yeah,” Nigel replied sheepishly. “But I…”

“So I’ve been stewing in here, out of my head, and it took twenty years for some kid to come along and get me out of it?”

“Well, yeah,” Nigel replied, feeling a bit guilty now. He liked giddy Frank better than this churlish Frank. Nigel wondered if he was always like this.

But then, Frank’s features softened. “Thank you. You’re the first person who cared enough to do something.”

Now Nigel was curious. “How much do you remember of the first times I worked with you?”

“I remember…Neville,” Frank replied. “Gods, that kid has grown! Me and Alice figured he was a Squib for sure. Most purebloods show signs of magic as babies, but not our Neville.”

“What else do you remember?” Rosen asked.

Frank thought. “I remember that I thought about things I hadn’t been able to in years. I remember one day that I could feel things, you know, have emotions. It scared me, actually.”

“That’s because we took you off of the sedative they’d been feeding you for so long.”

“Assholes. Not you. Them.”

Nigel sniggered, that is, until Frank’s expression turned dark.

“That man, I don’t know his name, but I know he was in charge of this place. He forced that stuff on me again. It was inhuman.”

Nigel and Rosen threw worried glances at each other. “Listen, Frank, you don’t need to talk about that if you don’t want to,” Nigel said.

“I want to talk about it, what I remember anyway. I remember that you came to me one night, really upset. You were being sent to prison or something, at least that’s how I remember it, for giving me something illegal. It’s all pretty foggy. I remember that I was under the impression that they were going to force some horrible potion that would take my mind away. I was pretty upset.”

“Listen, Frank…” Rosen began.

“But then I don’t remember anything after that. I had dark dreams that night,” Frank recalled. “Frightening dreams that I was back in that dungeon again, with Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus Snape standing over me.”

“Severus Snape?” Nigel asked, aghast.

“In the dream, I pounced on Snape, that damn viper, and I choked the life out of him,” Frank said. “That felt good.”

“Then what?” Rosen asked, hoping Frank would change the subject.

“And then I was out of my bed. I had pissed on the floor at some point and some Healer was leading me through a corridor telling me he wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“And?” Rosen asked.

“And that’s it. They gave me that sedative again and I’ve been back in the fog ever since, worse than ever.”

Nigel felt a pang of guilt. “Why worse?”

“Because I didn’t know what was real and what was imagined any more. It was like they were doing this on purpose, keeping me down like that. I started to feel hatred, but I couldn’t do anything about it because I was so damned drugged t hat I could barely hold up my head.”

Nigel sat back, pondering what next to say. “Frank, you are by no means what one would deem cured. You know that, don’t you?”

Frank scowled. “Yeah, I know.”

“I mean,” Nigel continued, “you can’t come out of a twenty-year fog and just walk away, I mean, that would be irresponsible. You understand that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And we need to know the long term effects of this potion,” Nigel said. “It’s not meant to be a one-shot deal, I mean, you’ll need to take it for a while, until you’re more stabilised.”

“Do I look unstable?” Frank asked.

“You look like a mental patient.”

Frank chuckled at that.

“Frank, Jude and I want you to be healthy again. We want you to be able to get out of here so you can have a life. But that’s going to take some time, and it’s going to demand that you look deeply at what happened to you in the first place. Are you ready for that?”

“You can guarantee that I’ll get out of here?”

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Nigel replied. “I’m only an intern. But I can guarantee that by talking about what was done to you, you can get better.”

“What about my wife? Are you giving her this opportunity?”

“This potion isn’t for everybody, Frank,” Rosen replied. “The patient has to be ready. According to Nigel, you were showing signs a year ago, but so far, your wife has not.”

“They raped her, you know?” Frank said bitterly. “All of them.”

Nigel suddenly didn’t know if he wanted to hear it any more. Could Snape really have been there? Did he participate in this? Could he have raped Alice Longbottom? It was too horrible to think about. Nigel stood up.

“How about this Frank?” he said, desperate now to change the subject. “How about if you and I take a walk outside? Is that OK, Jude?”

“Only if I can come with you,” Rosen replied.

* * * * *

The evening air was still a little warm, though the clouds had come in over the grey evening sky. The moment Frank Longbottom stepped outside, a broad grin lit up his gaunt, tired face. He raised his eyes to the sky, arms out, and whispered “thank you thank you thank you” over and over. He laughed as Nigel watched with a mixture of joy and worry. Who had raped Alice Longbottom? What horrors would Frank reveal, and should he? Deep down, Nigel knew he should talk about everything—but Nigel wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear what he had to say.

He and Rosen walked Frank to one corner, where Frank wondered at the passing muggle traffic.

“Motorcars have changed a lot, haven’t they?” he said curiously. “They were much uglier before. I always wanted a muggle car.”

“I used to have one,” Nigel said. “My one year at Hogwarts, my parents gave me a car to take my stuff there and back.”

“What sort was it?” Frank demanded.

“An old Jaguar, I think.”

“Nice. What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a video billboard across the street.

“Just an advert,” Nigel replied.

“Amazing. So much time lost.”

“Yeah.”

“What year is it again?”

“2002.”

“Damn. Must’ve been a hell of a celebration to ring in the new millennium.”

“More or less.”

* * * * *

That night, Nigel was almost relieved by Freddy’s cry which, in a way, gave him some comfort. OK, so his son had a wet nappy and was likely hungry, but that could all be fixed. Nigel changed the nappy, and gave him a bottle that Ginny had prepared earlier that day. He walked up and down the flat, his tiny son in his arms, cooing and shushing him as quietly as he could manage. Freddy had his entire life ahead of him—all his dreams, his prospects. And time. So much time.

Nigel tried to imagine what Frank must be experiencing right now, so newly, so fully awake and yet so filled with confusion and grief and the inability to know when or how to start getting his life back together. Nigel feared not only for Frank in that moment, but for himself. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to give Frank the help he needed and that, by bringing him back into an alert state, he had done Frank some injustice. He hoped not. Nigel hoped to see the brighter side of this situation. The potion had worked far too quickly, not giving him enough time to sort out exactly his next course of action. He had reckoned that he would have to ease Frank into alertness and instead, was overwhelmed by the aggressiveness of this new Frank. And then…

…Why did Frank want to strangle Severus Snape?


	24. Severus' Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I wanted to be more than just the school freak, which is what I was. The Death Eaters offered me what I thought I needed—they were feared and in a strange way, respected for their audacity and pure steel. I liked that aspect of them, but I neglected to consider some of the seamier activities in which they participated.”_

“You want to quit your job?” Nigel asked, aghast. But Ginny loved Quidditch, and she was so talented as a journalist. What could she want?

“I’ve thought about this a lot these last couple of months,” Ginny replied. She had just finished nursing Freddy and rubbed his back to help him digest. Freddy burped and slobbered and cooed.

“So are you planning to be a stay-at-home mum or something?” Nigel asked. “I mean, that’s okay with me if you want to, but I sort of got the idea that you like working.” He took Freddy from her and cradled the new sleeping baby in his arms.

“I do like working. But, we’ve got him now, and I want to do work that won’t take me away so much. And if another September 11 happens, well, I don’t know if I can take that again.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I talked with the editor of _The Portal_ yesterday, and I showed him my portfolio.”

“You mean you went down to his office?”

“He liked what he saw and he wants to offer me a position as a columnist. I can stay home with Freddy, but I can still write.”

Nigel grinned broadly. “I think that’s great! Perfect! So did you accept it?”

“Well no, I mean, not yet.”

“Why? Are you mad? Go for it!”

“I wanted to talk to you about it first. Remember, Team Weasley-Chaucer?”

She had him on that one. Nigel nodded.

* * * * *

It didn’t take long before Nigel realised that he was in way over his head. It was at times like this that he wished that Professor Dumbledore were still alive. Though he never knew Dumbledore well, he remembered him as one of the wisest, most insightful wizards he had ever encountered. Dumbledore was the man who insisted that Nigel learn magic in the first place, and it was Dumbledore, even more than Snape, who saw that Slytherin was the perfect choice for Nigel. Dumbledore would know exactly what to say to Frank—he would know what questions to ask and how to draw out the right information and emotions from Frank.

Nigel suddenly felt like a little boy.

“You have to decide on what you want Frank to experience,” Snape said a couple of nights later, as the two of them sat at the Three Broomsticks for a late-night ale.

“He kept asking all these questions,” Nigel said. “About history, about Voldemort, about Harry, about Neville. I did what I could to catch him up, but the span of twenty-one years is pretty daunting.”

“Did he ask about you?”

“No.” Nigel paused, anxious to ask the question he dared not ask. He pushed it to the front of his mind, hoping that Snape would detect it through Legilimency. When he saw his cousin narrow his eyes at him, Nigel knew he had succeeded.

Snape drew in his breath. “What else did he talk about?” he asked stiffly.

“A lot about the modern world. He wanted to know more about modern cars.”

“And?”

Nigel paused. He knew what Snape wanted, but he still couldn’t bring himself to bring up the subject. Snape narrowed his eyes again.

“You can ask me, Nigel,” he said.

Nigel looked into his cousin’s sallow face, tried to read the expression in his dark eyes. But as usual, Nigel could not detect a single thing, though he knew deep down that Snape was enraged.

“I think we should continue this conversation somewhere else,” Nigel said.

“No, I think we should stay here.”

“Severus, please.”

“Nigel, no,” Snape shot back.

Nigel sighed. “Alright, then. Have it your way. What do you know about the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom?”

Again, Snape drew in his breath, more sharply this time. “And why should you think I know about that?” he asked, without a trace of emotion in his voice.

“And why should Frank Longbottom want to strangle you in his dreams?” Nigel snapped.

Snape set down his glass carefully and straightened his robes. “Perhaps you’re right, Nigel. Perhaps we should take this elsewhere.”

Together, the two men trudged back up the road towards Hogwarts. The air was chilly that night, bracing and fresh. Nigel felt a twinge of pain in his back that made him wince. Snape stopped.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Just the old pains—nothing new,” Nigel replied. “I’m fine.”

Snape motioned for Nigel to sit for a moment. Nigel stood his ground.

“Go on,” Snape said impatiently. “Sit. I forget that the cold still affects you.”

Nigel sat. Snape sat next to him. He pointed his wand at Nigel, letting a refreshing waft of warm air envelop him.

“Thanks,” Nigel said gratefully. “I can already feel the pain going away.”

“Do you still take those healing baths you used to?”

“When I have time, which, considering I’ve got a job and a son and everything else, doesn’t happen too much any more.”

“You should take the time,” Snape reminded him. “You’re no good to anyone if you’re in pain.”

Nigel nodded. “I know.” A short silence ensued. Nigel could see that Snape was taking the time to form carefully what he wanted to say.

“I want to talk about what you asked me back there,” Snape said, now very businesslike.

“Can we not?”

“You asked, and obviously it’s on your mind. You made that abundantly clear.”

“Were you there, when it happened?” Nigel asked quietly.

Snape sighed. “Nigel, there are a great many things that you don’t know about me.”

“I know you were a Death Eater, Severus.”

“Yes, but you never knew me as one. Granted I was a Death Eater for only a short amount of time, but you have no idea of some of the truly terrible things I participated in.”

“Including the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom? Frank said she was raped.”

Snape closed his eyes and grunted. Nigel could detect that his hands trembled a little. “Like I said,” he finally replied, his voice firm, “there are many things you don’t know about me in those days.”

They sat in a dull silence for the next few minutes, each man too overcome to utter a single word.

“Does Allegra know?” Nigel finally asked.

“I told you before, she knows all my dark secrets. She helped me get through my very worst times, when it was all over.”

“So tell _me_ now,” Nigel said. “Severus, I want to hear this from you, not from Frank Longbottom. You’ve got to tell me what happened.”

Another long, uncomfortable silence. Nigel could see that his cousin was struggling for the right words. But what is the right way to confess to past crimes and terrors?

“When I first joined the Death Eaters,” Snape began, “it was all about power and respect. I wanted power, and I needed to feel respect.”

“Or feared,” Nigel pointed out.

“Don’t interrupt, Chaucer. Anyway, I wanted to be more than just the school freak, which is what I was. The Death Eaters offered me what I thought I needed—they were feared and in a strange way, respected for their audacity and pure steel. I liked that aspect of them, but I neglected to consider some of the seamier activities in which they participated.”

“You mean murder?”

“I knew about that. Lucius Malfoy committed his first murder before he left Hogwarts.”

Nigel raised both eyebrows. “I didn’t know that. Does Draco know that?”

“I doubt it. Lucius also committed his first rape whilst still at Hogwarts.”

“You witnessed it?”

“No, though the girl was in my year. I only heard about it sometime later.”

“Had you known, would you still have joined them?”

“Lucius was only one of many Death Eaters.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Snape nodded. “The problem I encountered in my very first weeks as a Death Eater was that no one can simply walk away. Even now, in a sense, I am still bound by what I did and saw.”

“So what exactly did you witness as a Death Eater that made you want to leave?”

“Too many things that I won’t mention. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I described them all. It would give you nightmares.”

“Tortures?”

“Amongst other things, yes. There were a few who truly reveled in the mayhem—Draco’s aunt Bellatrix Lestrange was one. Lucius Malfoy was another. Most of us found ourselves having to hold our noses through a good portion of it.”

“But that didn’t stop you from taking part,” Nigel noted disdainfully.

“We didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter,” Snape replied defencively. “If you were in, you were in for the whole package, not just on the sidelines. He kept us isolated from the mainstream for a purpose—we did too many awful things, too many terrible crimes. We had to be fully invested in every way. There was no other option. Naturally, we weren’t told this upon entry into their company. It was only after one was branded with the Dark Mark that we learned of the depth of our entanglement.”

“And?”

Snape rolled his eyes impatiently. “The Dark Lord…that is, Lord Voldemort, had just fallen, and there was much worry and speculation about what had happened to him. By then, of course, I had turned from him and was already employed at Hogwarts. Of course, the other Death Eaters didn’t realise that.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows at that. “So what did happen?” he asked.

Snape looked Nigel directly in the eye, a fierce expression on his pained face. “One thing I want you to know is that I did not rape Alice Longbottom. Others did, but I did not.” Snape sighed heavily, his voice now thick with emotion. Nigel felt incredibly uneasy just then—he hadn’t seen his cousin drop his aura of inscrutability like this before. “They had been captured, you see, not long after Lord Voldemort fell, and the Death Eaters were trying to force information out of them.”

“What would they have known?” Nigel asked.

“They were Aurors, so they knew quite a lot—where he was perhaps. That was the hope, anyway.”

“But they didn’t know, did they?”

“Of course not. No one did. But there was such a panic amongst the Death Eaters during those days—it was the first time they truly lived in fear.”

“They? You lived in fear as well, didn’t you?” Nigel asked.

“Though I was a spy by then,” Snape replied, “I had committed enough crimes as a Death Eater to make myself a major target for the Ministry. Aurors like Alestor Moody had little patience for someone like me. And Frank, in fact, wanted me arrested straightaway, but Dumbledore talked him out of it. My arrest would have done no one any good. When Lord Voldemort disappeared, my first duty was to be with the other…with the Death Eaters. Not to do that would have made me look very suspicious, and no one in the Order or the Ministry could afford for me to look suspicious.”

“So Dumbledore knew where you were?”

“Of course. There wasn’t a move I made that he didn’t know about. He was in many respects responsible for me and for my actions. He had brought me out of the darkness, and he felt that he had to see me through my current role. I couldn’t have done it without him, in fact.” Snape hung his head. “Nigel, there are times when you’re in deep cover that you have to make some very hard choices,” he said quietly, steadily. “I never dreamed that I would ever…”

“What?” Nigel asked. “Do what?”

“Books and muggle cinema have it all wrong, you know. They make spying look so fun, so thrilling, so glamourous—the truth of the matter is anything but that. Spying is a dirty, filthy business. There are times when a spy has to do something that violates every fibre of his conscience, because the alternative is disastrous for more than just him.”

“Your role was that crucial?” Nigel asked.

“I had been feeding information to the Order of the Phoenix for months, all through Albus Dumbledore. He was my contact in the Order.”

“And Frank knew you were supplying the information?”

“He knew. So did Alice.”

“But he didn’t trust you, in spite of what you were doing?”

“Alice trusted me, but no, Frank did not. He thought I was a double agent. And I am fairly sure that Bellatrix Lestrange thought that, as well.”

“So?”

“So, I had to prove myself to her more than anyone, though I don’t think she ever was really convinced. And then the bitch decided to use Frank and Alice Longbottom to test my loyalty. I thought I would be sick.”

“You mean, if you didn’t…”

Snape nodded. “Precisely. But I couldn’t rape Alice. Others did, including Lucius, but I just couldn’t. Frank was right there, forced to watch. I can’t even imagine what he went through, but there was no way I could make it stop. Too much was at stake. And when I couldn’t rape Alice, Bellatrix raised the stakes. If I could torture Alice Longbottom, then perhaps I was loyal to the cause.”

Nigel struggled to respond, but found himself mute. He dreaded what Snape would say next. “So you tortured her.”

Snape averted his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Cruciatus curse?”

“And more. You can’t imagine what I put her through. You don’t want to know.”

Nigel felt ill. His body shook. “Did that satisfy Bellatrix?”

Snape laughed disdainfully. “No. Nothing would.”

Nigel scowled. “True.”

“She didn’t think I was really putting my heart and soul into it, can you imagine?” Snape said contemptuously. “It wasn’t enough that Alice was shrieking and bellowing from pain I was causing her. I wasn’t going far enough.”

Nigel frowned. “What did she expect?”

“Unspeakable horror.” Snape shook his head with disgust. “Bellatrix simply took over from there. I can’t describe what she did to those people after she shoved me aside. And all I could do was stand there like a prat and watch. Any attempt to make her stop, and my cover would have been blown. And then Bella turned her wand on Frank. Their screams fill my ears even today.” He shuddered.

“It must be hard for you to be around Neville. Does he know what you did.”

“Of course not. When Neville first started as a student here, I thought I would go mad—having him and Potter in the same class was torture. I don’t know how I got through that first year with them. I wanted to throw myself at Neville’s feet and beg forgiveness, but of course that was impossible.”

“Because you were a spy?”

Snape nodded.

“And now? You’re colleagues now.”

“Frank was a tough old bastard. He would have given Neville no end of hell for being so slipshod. But you know, in his own way, Neville is just as tough as his father. He’s really quite exceptional as a teacher.”

“So that gives you some relief?” Nigel asked.

“In a strange way, yes. Neville is just as scarred as Potter or Draco or myself—but he’s held onto his innocence, and that’s what raises him up above the rest of us. That’s why I can stand to look at him in the Staff Room and not have to throw myself out of a window.” Snape blew his nose loudly.

As he listened to Snape’s story, Nigel found that his cheeks were wet with tears. He sniffled. “How do you live with it, with the memory?”

“I nearly didn’t. I nearly took my own life not long after. It’s a harrowing thing to discover what evil you are truly capable of. I’ve carried around a lot of anger in my life, and I’ve felt a desire to lash out in violence. But this…this was like some hidden demon that had taken hold of me. I felt utterly powerless, Nigel. I felt so stupid.”

“Gods, Severus! How awful,” Nigel breathed. He shut his eyes for a moment. “How much of this do you think Frank remembers?”

“As much as I do, I’m sure. What I did to his wife only proved his perception of me—he thinks me a viper. He might not be entirely wrong. When the Ministry exonerated me for Albus’ death, it caused a great scandal. A lot of people thought I had gotten away with murder, literally.”

“But you didn’t! We both know that.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Nigel. What I continue to wrestle with is whether I can ever do enough in reparation for what I did to Alice Longbottom.”

“It’s been twenty-one years! You need to move on!”

Snape glared at him. “And have you let go your guilt over Lucy’s death?”

Nigel blanched. That feeling of intense guilt was still raw for Nigel—he understood what Snape meant. The gang of dark wizards who killed his former girlfriend did so in revenge. Lucy had died a horrible death merely because Nigel knew her and loved her. Since then, he had carried the burden of guilt over her death, and though he moved on with his life, had started a new career, married Ginny and fathered a child, he could never quite erase from his memory the intense pain and anguish he had felt upon realising why Lucy was targeted. He reckoned that what Snape felt must have been far worse because he had participated in a terrible act against someone who was supposed to be a colleague.

So he certainly wasn’t ready for hostility when he got home.

When Nigel arrived back at the flat late that night, his mind burdened with his cousin’s ghastly confession, all he wanted to do was weep. But as soon as he walked silently into the flat, Nigel saw Ginny walking up and down, comforting a squalling Freddy.

“Colic again?” Nigel asked. He kissed Ginny, and took Freddy from her. “Hey, Freddo,” Nigel whispered. “Come on, kid, your mum wants to sleep. Quiet down now. Ginny, I’ll stay up with him. You go on to bed.”

Ginny kissed him on the cheek and padded off to bed. Nigel sat on the couch with Freddy in his arms, letting the baby do the crying for both of them. He listened carefully to his son’s yelps and could only think of Frank and Alice, with Snape standing stupidly on the sidelines, watching in horror.

“Come on, Freddy,” Nigel said, taking him into the bathroom. Nigel fumbled through the medicine cabinet for the muggle remedy they had used before. After a few minutes, the medicine took effect, and soon, Freddy’s cries stopped. Nigel held his son close, letting him drift off to sleep in his arms. He tiptoed back to the baby’s room and put Freddy to bed.

“Poor little guy,” Nigel murmured to himself as he went back to his own room, and climbed into bed with Ginny.

Ginny stirred. “Is he OK?”

Nigel stroked her bare arm. “Fine. Fast asleep. I used the muggle stuff and it worked right away.”

“Poor little guy,” Ginny said. She sat up and switched on the light. “You look awful, Nigel. What’s wrong?”

“I was with Severus tonight.”

“Is he alright?”

“It’s not that. He told me the most harrowing story I’ve ever heard. I can’t even repeat it because it’s so awful.”

Ginny frowned. “Why would he tell you such a thing if it was so disturbing?”

“It’s something I needed to know. Related to Frank Longbottom.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.” Ginny conjured a glass of water and took a long drink. “You know, Nigel, I still sometimes have a problem with him.”

“A problem? What do you mean?”

Ginny paused. “I know he’s your cousin and you have a very special relationship with him, but honestly, you’re one of the few people that do.”

“Uh, refresh my memory for me, Ginny, but couldn’t you say the exact same thing about Luna Lovegood?”

Ginny sniggered at that. “Luna? You’re comparing Severus Snape to kooky Luna Lovegood? You must be joking.”

“I’m not comparing them, Ginny. But most people find it nearly impossible to have a normal relationship with her because she’s so strange!”

“She’s an oddball, but she’s not evil!”

“Neither is Severus!” Nigel snapped, a little too harshly.

“Well he’s not now, but he was before,” Ginny retorted.

“Ginny, you have no idea what he went through in his life.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You sound like Hermione. The only reason why he ever changed was because of you and Dumbledore.”

“Well unlike most, Dumbledore and I were the only ones who ever treated him humanely!”

“And if he weren’t your cousin?”

“I’d feel the same way.”

“You would not!”

“Ginny, it’s a moot point, because he is my cousin. You may know him mostly as a teacher…”

“A mean-spirited, verbally abusive teacher!”

“…but I know him on a much deeper level!”

“Fine, so you see beyond the grease. Congratulations,” Ginny said dismissively.

That infuriated Nigel. “What is it about his hair that people can’t seem to get past?” he fumed. “Can’t you give the man a break for once?”

“Nigel!”

“I am so sick of the judgementalism leveled at him because of his damn HAIR!”

“Don’t shout, Nigel. You’ll wake Freddy!”

“What is wrong with people?” Nigel continued. “Why can’t they take him for what he is instead of the way he looks? Isn’t that what we try to teach kids, to judge based on character and not on looks?”

“Oh wait, so we’re supposed to ignore the fact that he was a Death Eater? That he killed Albus Dumbledore? That he verbally tormented Neville Longbottom for FIVE years?”

Nigel opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped. A strange, terrible thought invaded his mind that troubled Nigel deeply. Snape had participated in the torture of Alice Longbottom, and witnessed her rape. He had stood by whilst Frank was viciously tortured into insanity. Why, then, would he treat Neville so cruelly? Snape felt such a tremendous burden of guilt and anguish, and yet, he persisted in mistreating Neville rather than just leaving him alone.

He sighed heavily. “Ginny, I’m sorry. Gods!” Suddenly, he could barely breathe. His face grew pale and he thrust his hand to his chest, desperate to repress the deep sob that was rising in him.

“Nigel! Are you alright?” Ginny straddled his legs and peered into his teary eyes.

And then he lost it, broke down completely, his entire body shuddering from profound, pitiful weeping. He gasped and sputtered and choked as he fought to regain control of himself, realising that he was scaring the hell out of his wife.

“Ginny, I’m so sorry!” he cried. “I shouldn’t have fought with you!”

She kissed his cheek. “Nonsense. I was the one who started it. You were just standing up for Severus.”

“I’m such a fool!”

“No, you’re not! I’m the fool!” She smoothed his hair and frowned. “Baby, you’re scaring me. What went on today?”

Nigel sniffled. “Too much. Far too much.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nigel shook his head. “I can’t. It was told to me in confidence. I just don’t know what to do about it, I mean, say Harry told you something really disturbing about himself, something he had done years ago, what would you do?”

“I’d stand by him, be his friend. Sounds like that’s what you’re already doing for Severus.”

Nigel nodded. “What else can I do?”

“But whatever it is, does it change your view of him?”

Nigel paused. Did it? It was a long time ago, and yet, the act was so brutal, so horrendous that Nigel had to admit that… “Yes, it does.”

Ginny curled up next to him on the bed. “Maybe that’s why you’re so upset. It’s not what he did in the past but the fact that it interfered with your perception of him.”

That made him weep anew. “What does that make me, Ginny?”

“Uh…human?”

“I’m no friend!”

“You’re being dramatic again, Nigel.”

“No! I’m a fake, Ginny.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“When I walked away from him tonight, for the first time I felt disgust. I felt…hatred towards him.”

“You don’t hate Severus, Nigel. You’re one of the rare people that truly loves him. You hate whatever it was he told you. But you said yourself, he’s a changed man. Whatever he was in the past is in the past, not now. You were right about him all along, Nigel. I’m the one who’s been short-sighted, not you. I’m always so edified by your unswerving loyalty to Severus. It’s a beautiful thing.”

Ginny kissed his lips tenderly, running the tip of her tongue against his. As their kiss deepened, Nigel drew her to him, running his hands up under her t-shirt and softly over her breasts. Ginny nibbled his ear, his neck, kissed his shoulders, his chest and downward. As they made love that night, into the early hours of the new morning, clawing and scratching at each other, clinging desperately to each other, all thoughts of trouble and torture and Severus and Frank and Alice vanished conveniently from Nigel’s mind…

…at least for the moment.


	25. The Sage Awakens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nigel decided to take a calculated risk, just to see what would happen if he dropped the name of… “Even Severus Snape changed dramatically.”_
> 
> _Frank glared at him, too furious to find words._
> 
> _“You bring up that bastard’s name when he…” Frank started with a fierce growl._
> 
> _“I know he did some awful things in the past but…”_
> 
> _“YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT MONSTER DID!!!” Frank bellowed at the top of his lungs._

He consulted all the experts he could find, both muggle and wizard. Nigel spoke to psychologists, Healers, philosophers, even Aurors. He also consulted Harry and Draco. The three of them talked one evening at Malfoy Manor, where Draco was having a little gathering to celebrate his one-year anniversary with Pansy. Baby Abraxas was dressed in pale blue baby robes and sucked on pacifier. Ginny, Hermione and Blaise Zabini sat by the fireplace in the library, cooing over little Freddy.

“Does he still have colic?” Hermione asked.

“He’s getting better,” Ginny said. “It flares up only occasionally now. No one seems to know what it is, but it’s got to be painful.”

“Poor little guy,” Hermione said.

Blaise laughed. “I couldn’t handle the whole fatherhood thing,” he said.

“Yeah, those late nights are a real bitch,” Ginny quipped. “We can’t have you losing your beauty rest, Zabini.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Lose sleep? I’d make Paolo take care of it.”

Ginny giggled. “So it’s Paolo now? What happened to Reggie?”

“He was after Gavin, but before Claire,” Blaise said.

“Claire?” Hermione said, perplexed. She crinkled her nose.

“Yeah, Claire,” Blaise confirmed. “Is that a problem, Granger?”

Hermione blushed. “Oh, no of course not. I just thought…never mind.”

Blaise scowled. “Guess what, Granger? Some of us like both, and no, we’re not confused. You know, Allegra’s like that, too.”

Ginny goggled at him. “Allegra? Really? I had no idea!”

“She’s quite open about it, in fact,” Blaise said.

“Does Severus know?” Hermione asked, still alarmed.

“I expect so,” Blaise replied. “They go way back.”

“But isn’t he worried?”

Blaise frowned. “About what? You think because she’s bisexual, she’s going to cheat on him?”

“Well no…I mean…no,” Hermione replied sheepishly. She blushed a deep shade of pink.

Freddy gave a loud burp, which made the three of them laugh.

“Gassy little thing, isn’t he?” Blaise said.

Ginny pressed Freddy against her shoulder and rubbed his back. She giggled. “He gets that from his father, you know.”

They laughed again.

“Ginny! That’s terrible!” Hermione said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Blaise, I’m sorry I said that about you. It was foolish of me.”

Blaise patted Hermione on the knee. “No worries, hon. I hear it all the time. People think we’re sex crazed or something.”

“You are sex crazed,” Ginny said.

Blaise smirked. “Well yeah, but not because I’m bisexual.”

Ginny looked around for Pansy. “Where’s Parkinson?” she asked.

“Packing,” Draco said behind her. He sat down next to her and took Freddy from her arms. “Alright, Weaselby-Chaucer, how about your son against mine in a one-on-one Quidditch match?”

“Planning ahead are we, Malfoy?” Ginny shot back. She grinned. “Can we wait until they’re at least five?”

Draco shrugged. “It’s never too early to foster their unhealthy sense of competition and male bravado,” he said.

“My money is on Chaucer Junior,” Blaise said. “His mum has an unfair advantage.”

“She reports on Quidditch, you idiot! She doesn’t play!” Draco reminded him.

Ginny sat up straight at that. “I could still play. It’s been a little while, but you know what they say. Once you learn to ride a broom, you never forget!”

“Draco, why is Pansy packing?” Hermione asked.

Draco frowned. “She’s taking her mum on a Grand Tour of the Continent. She leaves tomorrow.”

“She? Not you?” Hermione wondered.

“I told her plainly that I’m not leaving my son for two months just to go to European discotheques. If she wants to do that, fine, but I’m over it.”

“I bet she didn’t like that much,” Ginny said. “You can’t get her to stay?”

“She thinks this trip is her reward for having given birth to a child,” Draco said with disgust.

“Can’t you just tell her no?” Blaise asked.

“She’s my wife, not my daughter,” Draco shot back. “She’s an adult. She’s not running off to have affairs, Zabini. She wants to travel, like her parents did, and like yours and mine. It’s a class thing.”

“So where does that leave you?” Ginny asked.

“With no class, I suppose,” Draco replied coolly. “I’ll travel when the kid is off to Hogwarts. Abraxas is changing every single day, I mean, and it’s just…an honour to be with him, especially now.”

“Aw thanks, Malfoy,” Nigel said as he and Harry joined the group. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me!”

“He was talking about his son!” Hermione snapped.

“So how’re things on the Good Ship Longbottom?” Blaise asked.

“Too bloody good to be true,” Nigel said. “When I decided to become a Healer, I had no idea I’d become a psychologist, too.”

“A what?” Draco asked.

“A head doctor,” Harry replied. “You know, a shrink. People who are messed up in the head go to them for help.”

Draco snarled. “I could use one of those. Chaucer, what are your rates?”

They all laughed.

“You think I’m kidding!” Draco said. “I’m pretty fucking serious, actually!”

“You couldn’t afford me,” Nigel replied, patting Draco on the shoulder. “You need a whole team.”

“No shit,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

Ginny smiled and nodded toward little Abraxas, who now had the family cat by the tail. “I think he can help sort you out, Draco.” The cat meowed and scampered off, disappearing around the corner.

* * * * *

“Draco’s in love,” Ginny said to Nigel that night. They lay in bed together, close and warm. “Only it’s with another man.”

Nigel chuckled. “You mean that short, fat bloke, bald head, drinks incessantly out of a baby bottle?”

“That’s the one.”

* * * * *

While Frank was incredibly lucid, he was nowhere near stable. Most days he continued to pepper Nigel with questions about modern society. He asked about computers, the Internet, mobile phones, and the thriving Irish economy. He wanted to know about the European Union, the debates in Europe over the Euro, the war against terrorism, and the DVD player.

“It’s like he’s sponge or something, trying to soak up everything he missed over the last twenty-one years,” Nigel told Draco a few days later. Now that Pansy was gone on her trip, Draco spent more and more time with his friends, especially with Nigel. Ginny and he would often visit Malfoy Manor so that their sons could play together—as best as little babies could, that is.

The boys were down for a nap, leaving Nigel, Ginny and Draco to wander to the little pond, where they sat with fishing rods dunked in the sparkling water.

“I never would have taken you for an angler, Malfoy,” Nigel said. He lifted up his pole to see if he had caught something. Nothing yet.

“I thought I should learn something like this,” Draco replied. “I figured that when Abraxas is old enough, we’ll be able to come out here and just sort of have father-son time together.”

“Pansy’ll love that,” Ginny said sourly.

“Pansy’s idea of father-son time is me making certain that Abraxas gets all Os in school, and that he’s not hobnobbing with muggle-borns.”

“Is she still into that?” Ginny asked, amazed.

“She can’t raise Abraxas like that,” Nigel added. “I’ll never get to visit.”

“She can try,” Draco replied.

“But you don’t go in for all that any more,” Ginny noted. “I mean, that’ll be really confusing for him.”

“It’s almost like having two radically different religions or something,” Draco said. “It’s no wonder kids get confused by their parents.” Suddenly, his rod shook and pulled. Draco jumped to his feet. “Hey, I got something!”

Naturally that meant fresh fish for dinner that night. The House Elves went all out, preparing roasted potatoes, braised vegetables, white wine, crusty bread and garlic butter.

“Frank would like this,” Nigel said. He ate his fourth helping of potatoes.

“Bring him over,” Draco said. “We could give him a walk around the grounds, give him some fresh air, give him a bloody change. He’s been locked up in that ward all this time, so let him out.”

Nigel pondered the idea. “I don’t know, Malfoy. I’ll have to ask Chief Rosen about it.”

“Invite him, too.” Draco’s eyes widened. “Hey! Have Longbottom come!”

Ginny laughed. “Have you run mad, Draco?”

“What?” Draco said, a bit taken aback. “Oh I see. I’m not supposed to be humane.”

“You’re supposed to be a right bastard,” Ginny replied. “But I like this Malfoy, too.”

When Nigel proposed Draco’s idea to Jude Rosen, the Chief put his foot down.

“It is way too soon for that, Nigel,” he said. “First of all, it would mean transporting him there, and we’re NOT apparating him. Far too risky. And furthermore, his physical health is compromised.”

“He needs what a place like Malfoy Manor can offer—lots of grounds to walk, fresh, clean air, beautiful things to look at. It’s not the same place it was when Lucius and Narcissa lived there. Draco has really transformed the entire property.”

“That may be, but…”

“But what? Frank has been cooped up here for such a long time. Don’t you see that?”

“Of course I do! But we can also take him to Hyde Park! We can take him to the Tate if we want him to see beautiful things.”

Nigel nodded. Rosen had a point. But still…

“Jude, if I propose the idea to Neville and Neville says yes, then can we take Frank?”

Rosen rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Why is it so important to take him there?”

“Because it’s a special place. A place of beauty and quiet and peace.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of that place being called peaceful. I thought it was a house of horrors.”

“That was in the past, but not now. What if you came with me?”

Rosen shook his head. “I’m sorry, Nigel, but no. Look, you need to think about this. Your friend might live there now, but what will stand out in Frank’s mind is that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy used to call it home. Frank is not nearly strong enough to handle that.”

He was right, of course. But that brought up another idea, one even more radical but one that might help. It suddenly occurred to Nigel that both Frank Longbottom and Severus Snape were haunted by the same memory of terror and pain, though from different ends. But both men had suffered to an even greater degree because neither had given himself the chance to confront it openly. Nigel wondered.

“You’re not suggesting that I see Frank Longbottom?” Snape asked him two weeks later. He came to visit the couple, bringing with him a new solution to combat diaper rash.

“Nigel, that’s not a good idea,” Ginny said.

They were right, of course. A confrontation would be a disaster for both men. Frank was too weak and Snape was too guild-ridden. New plan. Think, Nigel. Think think think. Think think think.

More progress over the next several days, another barrage of questions from Frank. He was shocked and fascinated to learn of Lord Voldemort’s demise, and wanted to know everything. Nigel hedged at that. After all, Snape had been central to the entire scheme. He had risked his life for Harry, taken part in the final battle—but would Frank believe that? Wouldn’t it be too traumatising for Frank to hear that?

“So where did it all go down?” Frank asked eagerly. “I expect it was some place dark and dreary.”

“Well, in fact, it took place at Malfoy Manor,” Nigel replied.

Frank folded his arms across his chest and sat back. “Figures. That place gives me the creeps.”

“You know, it’s not the same as it was. Ever since Lucius and Narcissa went to Azkaban…”

“Bad lot, the Malfoys. The boy, what’s his name again?”

“Draco.”

“Right strange name. Translates to _dragon_. Typical of those people. So is this Draco in Azkaban as well?”

“Actually, he’s at Malfoy Manor. He’s completely changed the place, got rid of all the dark objects, brought light and beauty to the place for a change. Draco is nothing like his father.”

Frank eyed him curiously. “Lucius Malfoy raped my wife.”

“You mean the night you and she were…uh…well, you know.”

“So Malfoy’s rotting in Azkaban?”

“Thanks to the efforts of a lot of people, including Draco, in fact.”

Frank grunted. “So the boy sold out his old man. Disloyal bastard brat.”

“Draco risked his life for the Order!” Nigel shot back, forgetting his place. “He allowed himself to be captured and tortured by Lord Voldemort! He was ready to let himself be killed so that Harry could finish Voldemort off!”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Frank, I was there! I witnessed the whole thing! A lot of people changed dramatically that entire year! You have no idea, Frank. It was amazing.” Nigel decided to take a calculated risk, just to see what would happen if he dropped the name of… “Even Severus Snape changed dramatically.”

Frank glared at him, too furious to find words.

“You bring up that bastard’s name when he…” Frank started with a fierce growl.

“I know he did some awful things in the past but…”

“YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT MONSTER DID!!!” Frank bellowed at the top of his lungs. Everyone in the ward stopped dead in their tracks, looking over in horror and concern as Frank continued his diatribe. “THAT ANIMAL TORTURED MY WIFE! HE CUT HER UP AND HEALED HER AND CUT HER AGAIN UNTIL SHE COULDN’T SCREAM ANY MORE!!! AND THEN HE JUST STOOD BY AND WATCHED AS THE REST OF THEM DID THE SAME TO ME AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN!!!”

Nigel stood his ground, pressing Frank further. This was it, the moment Nigel had waited for. “Severus Snape has paid for his crimes, Frank! You don’t know how much he’s suffered over the years…”

“Suffered?” Frank cried, appalled. His eyes flashed with new rage. “SUFFERED? How about feeling the tormenting pain I FELT? WHAT DOES HE KNOW ABOUT THAT?”

“HE KNOWS A RIGHT LOT!” Nigel shot back. “He’s the most brilliant…”

“HE DESERVES TO ROT IN HELL FOR WHAT HE DID!” Frank bellowed back. “HE DESERVES TO DIE A SLOW AND EXCRUCIATING DEATH!!! THAT’S WHY I STRANGLED HIM! THAT’S WHY I GAVE HIM WHAT HE BLOODY DESERVED!!! THE BASTARD HAD IT COMING, AND I’M GLAD I DID IT!!! THE MINISTRY WOULDN’T ACT, SO I HAD TO! I GAVE HIM JUSTICE!!!”

Nigel went white. For a moment it looked as if Frank would lunge at Nigel and strangle him, too, but then Frank sank down in his chair, heaving loud, anguished sobs, unleashing twenty-one years of repressed pain. His cries were almost screams or howls, seeking some sort of divine retribution or hellfire. But rather than rushing to help him, Nigel decided to let Frank continue his mournful cries, eager to see him expel all of his agony in one pitiful torrent. Frank could be heard throughout the ward, down the corridors, as far as the lifts. Nigel let him continue until finally, after several minutes, Frank began to grow weary.

“Put him to bed,” Nigel told an assistant. “Give him a sleeping draught. We’ll pick up tomorrow.” With that, he strode out of the ward, stopping momentarily in the corridor to wipe his brow and try and get his hands to stop shaking. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he took long, slow breaths to help himself calm down. He hoped he hadn’t done permanent damage to his patient.

* * * * *

“It was all for nothing,” Nigel told Ginny later that night as they washed up the dinner dishes and prepared a bottle for Freddy.

“What? The confrontation?”

“No, that was exactly what he needed! It was horrible to watch, but he expressed feelings that he had repressed for way too long. But poor Fowler,” Nigel said. “What a tragedy!”

“What?” Ginny asked. “I thought Frank killed him because he didn’t want to be on the Lethargis potion any more.”

“So did I!” Nigel replied. He stacked the dried plates and stacked them in the cupboard. “That’s what we all thought once we realised that Frank killed him. But I don’t think that’s why he killed Fowler at all. I don’t even think that Frank realises that he actually killed anyone.”

“Didn’t he confess? Wasn’t he screaming it across the ward?”

“Not exactly. Earlier, he told me that he strangled Severus in his dreams. Plus, he talked about him in the present tense, not in the past. He thinks it’s all a dream, Ginny! Sometimes he talks about Severus as alive, and sometimes as dead. I don’t think Frank really knows what he’s done. Not in a real way.”

“Then that clears him, right?”

Nigel puzzled at that. “Well, yeah, I mean, of course, as far as the Ministry’s concerned. It shows he wasn’t in his right mind. But think on it, Ginny! If I tell him the truth, that he killed the wrong person or that it wasn’t a dream at all, I don’t know what that’ll do to him! He’s lucid but he’s confused. He’s been in this state fluctuating between fantasy and reality, and I don’t know if he really understands what’s real and what’s not. Sometimes he does, but regarding what was done to him and Alice, it’s too far repressed.”

“What can you do?”

Nigel sat at the counter and moped. “Just stick with it. Help him untangle the mess in his mind.”

“That’s not going to happen too quickly,” Ginny said.

“I don’t think we’ll even be able to help him completely,” Nigel confessed. “But I never thought that he would be entirely healed.”

“You did a little bit.”

“Maybe a little,” Nigel admitted. “OK, a lot. Mostly, though, I wanted to bring him out of this sort of coma-like state he was in, and I did that. But it’s just the beginning. He’s a complete mess.”

Ginny checked the temperature of the milk in the bottle, then headed for the door. “I’ve got to give this to Freddy. You know, Nigel, Frank is a father.”

Nigel expected her to say more, but instead, she walked out of the kitchen, heading for Freddy’s room. Nigel sighed. He put the rest of the dishes away, thinking and wondering what his next move would be. Frank had really woken up, become engaged with the world around him. He had shown great curiosity and seemed to understand how much time he had lost. Frank had missed out on so many dramatic developments in the world, both wizarding and muggle. Cars had changed, politics had changed, fashions had changed, music had changed...

Nigel paused.

Neville had changed.

* * * * *

When Nigel entered the ward the following morning, a rather gloomy Saturday in October, Frank was still in bed, though not sleeping. Nigel carried a tray with coffee, crumpets, bangers and tomatoes, plus a rose in a crystal vase. He set the tray on the side table next to Frank’s bed and sat on the chair nearby. Frank looked at him with bleary eyes.

“Hi, Frank,” Nigel said quietly.

Frank grunted. His features were expressionless, but his eyes were bright and alert.

“Do you still hate me?” Nigel asked.

Frank sighed. “No. I don’t hate you.”

“How do you feel?”

Frank thought about it. “Light.”

“Light?”

“Light. That beast that had been pressing down on my heart all these years seems to have gone.”

Nigel smiled. “That’s good.” He filled a small plate with two bangers and a crumpet, heavily buttered, and handed it to Frank. “Sit up and eat your breakfast.”

“You gonna give me more of that potion you’ve been giving me?” Frank asked, sitting up and accepting the plate, plus a fork.

“Do you want more? I’ll put it in your coffee.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah, I want it. It’s the only thing that’s done me any good.”

“Good.” Nigel placed just two drops into the coffee and stirred.

Frank downed the cup of coffee in two large gulps. “So you invented this stuff?” he asked.

“With some good advice, yeah.”

“From whom?”

Nigel paused. “From a lot of people.”

“Thank you.” Frank finished his breakfast rather quickly and loudly, then handed the empty plate back to Nigel, who watched with concern.

“Frank, I thought you needed a little change today, so rather than talking more with me, I brought someone special, someone who really wants to see you.”

“If you tell me it’s Severus Sn…”

“No, it’s not. Trust me, I wouldn’t do that to either of you. Look, why don’t you get dressed, and then come with me up to the patio outside the cafeteria.”

Nigel waited nervously for Frank in the corridor—Frank took much longer to dress himself than Nigel expected, which made him worry anew. He hoped that this new plan would work, both to soften the experience of yesterday’s outburst and to give Frank something hopeful and sweet. Soon, Frank emerged, wearing light green robes and fluffy white slippers on his feet. Nigel took him by the arm and together, they walked to the lift, which took them up to the next floor, where Frank’s guest awaited him.

Halfway down the expansive cafeteria, Frank turned to Nigel. “It’s Neville, isn’t it?”

Nigel grinned. “Yeah. I owled him last night and asked him to come visit you today. Is that alright?”

Frank broke into a tear-faced smile. He nodded, stifling a little sob. “Yeah. That’s just fine.”

Nigel pointed to the door that led to the outdoor patio. “Neville’s out there. He’s grown a beard again, so don’t be too shocked.”

Frank pulled Nigel into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Nigel. Hey, how do I look?” He sniffled and wiped his eyes dry.

“Perfect. Like a wise man.”

As Nigel walked back towards the lifts and returned to the ward, he couldn’t help but laugh. He didn’t know what the future held for Frank Longbottom, but Nigel felt fairly certain that the ghosts of the past would slowly and steadily lose their grip on his mind and emotions and that, with more visits from Neville and from his mother, Frank could potentially find some happiness and clarity of mind. Nigel knew that Frank’s life would never be perfect, and that he might never be well enough to leave St. Mungo’s, but he decided to worry about that less and less. That was perhaps the greatest lesson that Nigel felt he had learned—that patience and trust would always win out over force and panic. 

The more that Nigel worked with Frank and observed his demeanour in the following months, he began to see a sort of wisdom in Frank’s expressions and words. Frank was a man who had no material attachments whatsoever. He had lost everything during his time in hospital, and should he be released, he had nowhere to go, and no way to support himself financially. Gone was his career, his looks, his possessions, everything. And yet, Frank had found comfort and joy from his son, from his many quiet talks with Nigel or with Jude Rosen. It was a simple life, to be sure, but for Frank, it had become rich in meaning.

In the evening after work, Nigel would apparate home, kiss his wife, play with his son, see his friends and family, dabble in new and exciting potions experiments, and then head off to work again the following morning, where he would return to the earth, held fast by Frank’s utter artlessness. It glowed from within him, radiating out and grabbing onto Nigel’s heart and mind, giving him a strange, wonderful sense of peace.

Perhaps Frank Longbottom truly was a sage.


End file.
